18. Ivy
Ivy
I ’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but the second time I wake up, I feel a lot better than I did the first time.
My stomach gurgles with hunger, and I’m thankful it seems to be settling down.
My mind feels clearer, and I don’t feel so sluggish and dead on the inside.
I turn to my side and find him in bed next to me, his back against the headboard, his arms crossed over his chest, sleeping without a shirt on.
He most likely had to shower after I vomited all over him.
I take the opportunity to study him closely.
Tattoos cover his chest and arms. There are only a few spots without any ink, and I know, without a doubt, he’ll find something to fill them.
I’m jealous of the asshole’s thick eyelashes, and his hair looks effortlessly styled despite just being washed.
Hawke is beautiful, and it’s strange to view him the same way I might’ve days ago, after how carefully he treated me.
It’s a sobering thought to think about how fucked-up his childhood was.
I wonder who looked after him. I have the urge to curl my fingers through his hair, but refrain because I don’t want to wake him.
I turn back around, reach for the glass of water he left for me, and take a sip. There’s a small package of crackers there as well, and as if my stomach senses them, it growls loudly, and I curl into myself, willing it to stop.
“You’ve been asleep for almost two days. You need to eat something,” he says from over my shoulder. Damn, I always thought he was a heavy sleeper.
“Sorry for waking you,” I say as I turn back to face him.
“I was only resting my eyes.” His eyes are still closed, and he looks so tired. This is a side to Hawke I’ve never seen before. I wonder if anyone but his brother has seen this part of him that almost seems… sad.
“What time is it?” I ask, looking for my phone and spotting it on his side table.
“Four in the morning on Sunday.”
“Sunday?!” I yell, sitting upright. He opens one eye now, his almost-black gaze finding me.
No wonder I feel like I’ve slept like the dead. I’ve literally slept for almost two days. When was the last time I slept like that?
Memories come back of spewing all over his bed, and I instantly feel guilty. I always assumed someone like him would have a housekeeper and that he wouldn’t do things like that, but I guess I’ve been wrong about a few things when it comes to Hawke.
“I can pay your housekeeper bill. For the sheets. Thank you for looking after me.”
“I’ve already washed them.”
“You do your own laundry?” I ask, amused.
I know Hawke has money, a lot of it, so imagining him doing something so domestic is…
I try not to smirk. “Why?” I’m spoiled because my mother does mine, and I’d much rather buy a new outfit than wash laundry.
I’m not incapable of it. I just hate it.
I immediately try to imagine Anya doing the ironing, and the image is easily replaced by River doing it.
He casually shrugs. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“No, I won’t,” I say, promising myself I won’t laugh at him.
He seems hesitant but sighs and then explains, “I come from nothing, so while it’s nice to have money and do all the fancy things we dreamed about when we lived on the streets, I always told myself if I could just get a washer, I’d do all of my laundry myself.
So when I bought this place, it was the first thing Anya gave me, and I still use the same one. ”
“She gave you a washing machine?” I ask in disbelief. I never expect these types of responses from him. I thought all Hawke did was fuck, party, kill, and lift weights.
“Yep. Our first Christmas together, she asked what we wanted. Ford remained quiet, and I blurted out, I wanted a washing machine. Trust me, when you live in the same clothes for weeks on end, you want one.” A cheesy smile spreads on his face.
“I just didn’t think she’d buy me another one when I moved out and bought this place when I was eighteen. ”
It’s crazy to think how quickly they turned their lives around.
Sure, the twins had had help from Anya, but they honed their skills enough to impress Eli and ended up working for him.
I grew up around those guys and know they’re as ruthless as they come.
Maybe I’m desensitized to it all because I’m not scared of them.
Never have been and never will. But that’s a luxury I know only a few have.
I don’t comment on his living situation because I can’t relate, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have empathy for everything he’s been through. I was raised by two loving parents who literally showed me the world. We are different in a lot of ways, but at the same time, we’re somehow alike.
“Have you traveled much?” I ask. Hawke has a social media account, but he rarely posts anything. And the number of women who follow him anyway is mind-boggling. Most likely, they’re just sliding into his DMs. But I’ve never heard about him traveling.
“Nope. I think I have a passport somewhere. I’ve just never had the urge to since I’m by Eli’s side all the time,” he says, closing his eyes once again. “But you love to visit other places, don’t you?”
Grabbing the crackers, I put one in my mouth, chew it up, then swallow it before I say, “It’s my favorite thing in the world.”
“Maybe we’ll go somewhere together one of these days, and you can show me around,” he says through a yawn.
I turn to face him, place the second cracker in my mouth, and see he’s already fallen asleep.
I soften toward him a little more. I’ve heard about how heavy a sleeper he is, but it looks like he hasn’t slept in months.
I think back on our conversation last night.
I wonder if this has anything to do with his outburst on not hurting women.
There’s something vulnerable about Hawke that I’ve never noticed before.
Despite his size, I’m reminded that he was once a little boy.
Actually, it’s clear as day that that little boy is still in there somewhere because he still acts like a big guy.
It’s part of his personality that often drives everyone insane.
I quietly climb out of his bed, hoping not to wake him.
I head downstairs to the kitchen, still wearing one of his shirts that comes to my knees.
I like Hawke’s home; it’s flashy, sizeable, and far too large for him to live in alone, especially compared to his brother’s modestly-sized home.
I wonder if that’s because he never had this as a kid.
But I can’t help thinking about how lonely it must be living in a five-bedroom home without anyone else.
Maybe that’s why he’s always partying. I don’t think he likes to be alone.
When I pull open the fridge door, I’m not surprised by how stocked it is. I try not to laugh. It couldn’t scream “bachelor” any louder even if he tried. It’s full of various meat, eggs, and protein drinks. Protein. Protein. Protein.
I don’t expect anything less from a man who loves to eat as much as he does, and it takes a hell of a lot of food to maintain a body that big, I imagine.
I settle on making a sandwich since he has bread in the fridge, which, okay, is kind of weird.
But it’ll do. I grab some meat and settle for that since he literally has no greens for a salad.
I make two sandwiches, one for myself and one for him, because he never turns down food. I take a peek into his personal gym before going back upstairs. I’ve seen all of this through his cameras, but being here. Seeing it all in person is different. It smells like him. Feels like him.
One of his eyelids peels open the moment I step back into the room. I’m certain it has less to do with my presence and more to do with the instinctual knowing that food is within his vicinity.
“You don’t have any salad,” I say, handing him the plate.
He curls up his nose. “You don’t make friends with salad.”
I shake my head as I take a seat beside him.
It feels strange not having the sexual energy between us.
Just simply being. Sex is the last thing on my mind right now as terror grips my lower stomach at the thought of what might’ve happened that night at the party.
I side-eye Hawke, once again feeling a rush of gratitude for my unlikely hero.
I pick at the sandwich, making a decision to take back my power. This incident has deeply affected me, and I’m sure I’ll have to figure out a way to overcome it completely. But my curious mind needs answers. I need to know what I’m dealing with.
“Did you find out who drugged me?” I ask, trying to be nonchalant as I take a bite.
“Yep,” he answers, already having demolished his sandwich.
Okay, I should’ve made him two. “It’s been handled.
” And that’s all he gives me as he lies down, his massive arms flexing as he tucks his hands behind his head.
I don’t even want to ask what his definition of “handled” is.
If he’s anything like my father or the other men we’re associated with, it means the guy is on a magical boat to hell, most likely sent there by an excruciating death. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.
“Do you want half?” I offer.
“You should eat more than half.”
“I can’t. It hurts my stomach,” I tell him, and he’s quick to devour it.
I lie down beside him, staring at him. It feels surreal and intimate.
I’ve never done this with a man… just laid in bed beside them and not fucked.
But it’s his ease with the situation that scares me most. He must’ve done something very bad.
I just hope he doesn’t get himself in trouble for my sake.
“What did you do to him?” I whisper.
His dark eyes study me carefully as he casually tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, as if not realizing he’s giving in to his impulses. But it feels comforting, even if it is foreign. “I informed him what he did was wrong.”
“Yes, but what did you do ?” He doesn’t answer. “You know I can find out, right?”