6. Hawk
6
HAWK
I t’s been a long day today, and Tank and Vance have mentioned several times about some chick they picked up last night at the clubhouse.
I just hope they’re not getting distracted or led into some sort of trap.
Vance tells me I’m paranoid, but I’m just trying to keep these fuckers alive. They seem to forget sometimes the world that we operate in and how much we have on the line.
There’s a reason we’re number one.
I groan, rubbing the back of my neck.
And these assholes want to talk about getting laid like horny teenaged boys.
The shower steam fills the room like smoke. I stand there, letting the heat seep into my muscles, still tense from hours bent over the forge. The work is hard, grueling even, but there's a satisfaction in my art that's hard to beat. The creation of something sharp and beautiful from a raw, unforgiving metal—knives that balance perfectly in the hand, jewelry that catches the eye with its intricate designs.
I step under the shower, turning the faucet until the water is just shy of scalding. It hits my skin, washing away the grime and sweat of a long day's labor.
As the water courses over me, I close my eyes and let the heat work its magic. The tension in my shoulders begins to unwind, the ache in my back eases, and for a moment, I might find peace.
But only for a moment as my peace shatters like glass under a boot heel.
Tank's voice is as unmistakable as an alarm clock in the dead of night, cutting through my solitude with the subtlety of a chainsaw.
He made his way back to the apartment early.
I bristle and he’s most likely brought that girl with him. Great.
“You want something to drink?” he asks.
I listen for a moment, but the shower is too loud to discern what the other voices are saying, and I have no doubt he’s asking me.
I shut off the water. The steam clings to my skin as I step out, grabbing the towel and rubbing it over my head and down my body.
I wrap it around my waist, the fabric clinging slightly to my still-damp skin. Barefoot, I pad out of the bathroom, finding Tank leaning against the hallway wall, a beer in one hand and a look on his face that says he's got more than just alcohol on his mind.
He’s got the worst poker face in the gang.
“Well, look who's home,” he says with a goofy ass grin.
As I step into the living room, I catch Vance lingering in the entryway, stumbling slightly as he kicks off his boots.
Then I see her, an unfamiliar face among the familiar.
She's perched at the edge of the couch, a tentative smile playing on her lips as she scans the room, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too curious.
Now, I understand why they can’t stop talking about her.
“This is Izzy,” Vance says, running his hand through his sandy blonde hair. His silver eyes flash as they catch mine.
"Is that so?" I say, extending a hand to Izzy, who takes it. She’s delicate, small hands, but there’s meat on her bones and I like that.
"I see my two associates dragged you up here,” I say with a grim smile. “I’m surprised you were willing to come back here.”
”They’re nice.”
That makes me laugh.
“Hear that boys? You’re nice!”
She’s in her early twenty’s, with dirty blonde hair that she wears loose, falling in waves that frame her face. She's got a figure that could stop traffic, curvy in a way that draws glances, which she seems blissfully ignorant of—or maybe she just pretends to be.
Her arms fold quickly over her chest.
No, she’s nervous. She can barely look me in the eyes.
But it's those eyes that are captivating. She leans back away from me, and I remember my lack of clothes.
Whatever. It’s my house. My gang.
“Was last night your first time at our little establishment?”
"Yeah, though my friend’s been here before," she says, her voice smooth. Something’s off about this one, just like that last single, young too hot to be alone here woman who mysteriously wandered into my clubhouse.
Except, this one’s a bit more aware of the delicate situation she’s in.
“Who’s your friend?” I ask.
”Laina—she sort of looks like me, but is a bit shorter. She was here just the other night.”
I nod, keeping my doubts tucked behind a polite smile. "Sure, I don’t doubt she was. Lots of people are welcome here, as long as they're a friend of a friend."
Her smile widens, perhaps a touch too quickly.
“Did you speak to her?” She’s too polite for the typical tart these two usually bring back.
“It’s hard to say. I talk to a lot of people.” My eyes skip down to her empty hands. “I’m guessing Tank never got you that drink?” I gesture towards the kitchen. “Can I get you that drink?”
“That'd be great, thanks.”
“Shit, my bad,” Tank laughs. “Sorry about that.”
She should know that drinks are the last thing on his mind right now. It’s more about what’s between her legs.
I walk over to the bar cart beneath the massive bay window. She’s silent but watchful.
It could be my paranoia, but two hot single women in a week show up at my clubhouse unannounced—it reeks of the feds.
I glance over my shoulder at her. If she’s a Fed then she’d know what these two are up to, so is this their newest plan. Fuck her for information?
If they want to dance, then let’s fucking dance.
The first one got off easy.
But I’m not feeling so nice today.
I pull out two glasses, setting them on the counter with a deliberate slowness, buying time to figure her out. "So, Izzy, what’s your poison?"
"Whiskey, if you have it," she answers.
I nod, pouring the amber liquid into the glasses.
"Neat?"
"Perfect," she replies.
I turn around, my arms flexing as I hand her one. She takes it, her fingertips brushing mine, a calculated move or just an innocent touch, hard to tell.
Her eyes linger on my chest a fraction of a second longer than they should and as casually as I can, I scan her up and down. She's definitely prettier up close, with pouty lips that beg to be bitten and a jawline that could cut ice.
“Cheers,” I say, giving her the warmest smile I can muster. If she was smart enough, she’d know to get the hell out of her.
We clink glasses.
"Thanks," she sips, watching me over the rim of her glass. Tank and Vance have gotten into a heated conversation on the couch over some bull shit about who has the better engine in their motorcycles. I run my hand over my jaw, wondering if either of them had the thought she’s working with the police or a rival gang. All they’d see is a pretty face and a good pair of tits.
Maybe I’m not giving them enough credit.
Their voices fade into a background hum as she and I size each other up. It's a dance I know well—information traded in half-truths and smiles.
”How come you guys left the bar so early?” I ask forwardly.
”The guys were getting rowdy,” Vance says, leaning back on the sofa. Izzy's gaze shifts from me to Vance, her smile as smooth and untroubled as a water at dawn. "Yes, the bar was a bit much tonight," she agrees, her voice light, betraying her ever so slightly.
She’s more than nervous.
“Rowdy, huh?" I muse aloud, taking another sip of my whiskey. The liquid burns just right. “What the hell were you all expecting? A fucking picnic?”
Tank chuckles, oblivious to the probing nature of the conversation. "Hawk's just being his usual hospitable self," he jokes, but there’s a glint in his eye that suggests he's enjoying this a bit too much.
"Come on, Hawk. You know we just wanted to talk,” Vance says. “Relax a little without one of the guys trying to start a fight. You should try it sometime.”
"I know about relaxing and that talk is good," I reply, setting my empty glass down with a soft clink. "Especially when new faces appear. Helps to know who's who, and what's what."
I wonder which one wants her or perhaps they both do. They’re both watching her as though she’s the grand trophy of the evening.
Izzy's eyes flicker between us, her heartbeat just the slightest bit elevated. She knows she's on shaky ground here.
"We can come back later," Tank says.
I arch an eyebrow at Vance. "Why?"
Vance clears his throat but doesn't elaborate further.
They haven’t figured out which one she wants either. Most likely she’s not planning on getting her back blown out.
I sit down on the couch, leaning back directly across from her. My towel’s doing a decent job of staying up.
"So, what are your plans now, pretty thing?" I ask casually.
Izzy swallows, her slender throat rises and falls, and for a brief moment I let myself imagine my cock lodged there, her body trembling beneath mine.
“I…” She hesitates. “I’m not sure. Vance and Tank invited me to come up with them.”
Her eyes flicker to Vance, then Tank, and then back to me, she’s asking them for some kind of help. I can practically smell the questions brimming within her.
I reach down and grab a joint off the coffee table and take a long drag and blow the smoke out in a thin stream, my eyes never leaving her face.
“That was nice of them to invite you into my apartment.”
“I didn’t know,” she says sheepishly. “I can leave.”
Damn. I clench my jaw. There’s something about her naivety that I’m drawn to. Poor thing wasn’t made to be among…
“No.” I say, waving a hand. “Stay.”
I’m just getting started.
I give her a long look, my eyes raking over her curves. “If you’re so inclined, that is.” The unspoken words hang in the air.
She shifts on the edge of the sofa but doesn’t go anywhere. Good.
“Tank. Vance. Head back to the club.” I lean forward, drawing another long pull from the joint. The smoke snakes out from between my lips. “Make sure the guys don’t lose their shit and tear the club down.”
“And tell the others. No one comes up here tonight until I say so.”
They share a look, and Vance grits his teeth. Tank nods, but he doesn’t leave without one last look at Izzy.
I wait until the door closes behind them before I turn my full attention back to her.