7. Izzy
7
IZZY
I ’ve made mistakes before.
Put myself in harm’s way hundreds of times with work. I mean, sneaking into the crime scene and almost completely losing my job was not nearly stupid as this…
What the hell was I thinking? I can’t infiltrate the Hellfire Riders.
Maybe last night gave me some false hope.
When I showed back up, it was just like last night. I danced with Tank and Vance had a few drinks, but I never expected to be standing in front of a half-naked Hawk.
The realization of my blunder hits me hard. The guy’s only wearing a towel, for crying out loud. He’s cold and calculated like the blue in his eyes is layered with ice.
My stomach tightens and if it tightens anymore, I think that might be the end for me.
His black hair is still damp from the shower, giving him a slightly wild look that doesn’t quite mask the danger lurking in sapphire eyes. He’s dissecting me.
I can feel it, and not like the others.
He takes another hit of the joint. The black ink of his many tattoos stretches and pulls with the motion. And then there are his hands—craftsman's hands, rough and etched with the fine scars, still and controlled.
My dad would tell me to run. Now.
But I can’t move. Because running would only solidify any doubts he has about me.
“Look, I know it must be strange that I showed up here on my own,” I say, hoping the weakness in my voice isn’t breaking, isn’t so damn obvious.
“Strange, princess?” Hawk puts the joint out in the ashtray.
His expression doesn’t change. “Strange is an understatement.” He leans forward, his bare chest within reach.
“You’re shaking,” he says, and I realize I am.
“I’m cold.” Terrible lie.
The words come out shaky, and I’m angry at myself for it. He doesn’t buy it either—I can tell by the way his mouth twitches, like he’s struggling not to smile.
“You don’t belong here. You must know that.”
No shit, Sherlock.
I swallow and will myself to meet his gaze.
He reads the fear in my eyes, in my stuttered words. Fuck. I need to get a handle on myself. Now. This man, he has to believe me or I’m as good as dead. So I pull out the cover story I’d come up with.
“The truth is…I need help from the club.”
His expression morphs into a smirk that makes my heart stutter.
“And why would we help you?”
The tension in the room thickens. I press on, threading my trembling fingers together in my lap.
“Because…because I have an ex from the Dead Demons, and he’s…”
I pause, watching his reaction closely, noting the slight tightening around his eyes. “I used to date someone from there. But things got… complicated. Dangerous, even. When it ended, it wasn’t clean. There were threats.” I let the words hang, the implication clear. My real fears only add to the believability of my story.
I pause, Hawk doesn’t say a word, so I continue.
“He’s not the kind to let go easily, you know…, and well. I figured; you guys might be the safest place.”
"Dead Demons, huh?" Hawk's tone is neutral, but there's a sharpness to his gaze that tells me he's not entirely buying it. "That's quite a story, Izzy. And you've come to us, of all people, for protection. That’s a bold move."
I swallow past the lump in my throat, my heart racing. "Desperate times.”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine, assessing, calculating. After a moment that stretches uncomfortably long, he finally speaks, his voice steady and controlled.
“You know we only protect our own right?” he finally asks.
“I can tell you what you want to know about them.” I know some of the intel that the police department has gathered on these guys. They always leave evidence, make too many mistakes. I’ve read the files on their rival gang. I know enough to bull shit through this.
Hawk's eyebrow shoots up in surprise, and he leans forward, interest piqued.
“They’d kill you if they found out,” he says.
I nod.
“I’m aware.”
“Which means you must know what it means to a woman who rides with a club, right?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re aware of the…expectations?”
I swallow hard. I had a feeling he’d say something along those lines. I have to agree to whatever he throws at me. You don’t say no to the club president, especially when asking for something.
“I’m not stupid, Hawk,” I say, unable to catch the words before they fall out of my lips, but I’m sick of his little questions and his games.
My anxiousness is taking control.
Hawk's gaze darkens.
"Then before you make your decision, let me make things clear," he says, each word loaded with menace and power. "You come to us for protection, and you're Hellfire Rider property now."
My stomach flips. Property. The way he says it sends shivers down my spine. “I understand.” I grit out. I can handle anything, as long as it means getting Laina back in one piece.
“So, if I tell you to dance?”
Jesus. This fucking guy. I grit my teeth together.
“I dance.”
“And if I tell you to strip?”
“I strip.”
His smile is cold and calculating. “And if I tell you to come?”
I blush and look away, but I know he saw the way my cheeks warmed. Definitely not cold in here. No. It’s absolutely stifling, and I might as well be standing in the fire.
“I…” I clear my throat. “I’ll... come.”
He chuckles, the sound low and sinister, and oh, so wicked in the dimly lit room. It was like he could see right through me.
“Come where?” he pushes.
I want the ground to swallow me whole.
“Wherever you want me,” I mutter.
We both know what he's implying. My insides coil in revulsion and an even deeper wanting.
“Come here, then.” He points to the floor right in front of him.
I hesitate for a split second before I do as he commands. I'm at his feet now, my heart thumping in my chest like it's trying to escape.
“Look at me,” he growls. I reluctantly lift my eyes. His are so dark and mesmerizing, and I find myself drowning in them.
“Good girl.” The words roll off his tongue like honey and venom. “Take off your clothes and let me get a good look at you.”
I'm frozen. I can't do this. He's a stranger, a biker, and a man I know nothing about. Except he just made me want to beg for more with a simple glance.
I fume, but I know I agreed to this. Every fiber of my being protests as my shaky fingers go to the zipper of my jacket, but my traitorous body listens nonetheless.
There's a prickle on the back of my neck, that unmistakable sensation of Hawk’s dark eyes watching me.
I slide off my jacket, my movements stiff, more mechanical than fluid.
Hawk’s gaze is almost tangibly, like a weight pressing against my skin. It's intense, deliberate. I unbutton my jeans, the sense of exposure gnawing at my resolve. They drop in a pool at my ankles, and I step out awkwardly.
Pulling my shirt over my head, the fabric catches for a moment on my bracelet, and I curse under my breath, tugging it free.
Hawk's eyes sharpen, narrowing with a predatory glint in them.
Left in my bra and panties, I swallow down my pride and meet his gaze.
His smirk widens, a cruel, crooked thing. Then he reaches down, grabbing the remote from where he had plucked the joint. In a second, he presses a button on it and Aerosmith starts playing through a stereo system under the television.
“Now, you dance.”
I want to tell him where he can shove his order, but the words die in my throat as I meet his eyes—dark, bottomless pools that dared me to defy him.
This can't be happening. Not like this, not with him watching. But I can't find it in me to stop.
My weight shifts between my feet, and I inhale a shaky breath, willing myself to find some sliver of bravery. My hips move stiffly at first, but as the adrenaline kicks in. The drinks downstairs with Tank and Vance help to numb the sheer embarrassment of it all.
Hips swaying, arms in the air, I dance for him as he leans against the couch, his eyes never leaving my body.
I spin, my eyes darting around the apartment for some kind of weapon.
There’s a knife in the kitchen, one of the glass liquor bottles, carved metal of figures littered about. Probably too heavy for me to swing, but a smaller one might do.
I move closer to the kitchen, trying my best to feign some sort of sensuality.
Hawk clicks his tongue.
“Come back here, Izzy,” he says, motioning for me.
Damn it.
Turning, I saunter back to where he lounges on the couch, every step a silent protest. Gesturing with his finger, he summons me close to him.
I'm trembling. I don't know if it's from fear or anticipation.
“Take off the rest.”
I hesitate, my fingers trembling as I unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the ground. The cool air rushes in, making my nipples harden.
“Slower, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice sending shivers down my spine. The heavy rhythm of the music continues to thump overhead, matching the beat of my pulsing heart.
I push my panties down, revealing myself to him fully.
Hawk stands then, rising from the couch, towering over me. I am painfully aware of there being nothing but the thin towel between us as the heat of his bare chest leeches onto my own.
Fear and desire coil together in my stomach, twisting.
His hands, calloused and rough, brush my bare shoulders then up toward my neck to my cheek, where he draws my chin upward.
Then all at once his lips are mine.
His kiss is hard, demanding, but I can't help but melt into it.
My body betrays me, igniting with a heat I've only ever felt in my feverish dreams. His hands grasp the back of my head and hair, forcing me to gasp.
It’s like every cell in my body is on fire for him.
Hawk's grip on my hair tightens, and I whimper.
"You like it rough, don't you, angel?" he growls against my lips.
My breasts press against his chest, and he pulls me against his front, and his hardened cock grinds against my pussy. The thin towel barely hangs onto his waist. If he wanted to fuck me then and there, I don’t think I would want him to stop.
“I could ask you to touch yourself for me. Show me what you like,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down my bare back. “Make you reveal yourself to me.”
I whimper at his slick, lustful words that continue to cause wanting to rise through me like a brimming tidal wave.
“Or I could just take you, bend you over that table and fuck you. Hard.” He kisses me then, hard, pushing his tongue against mine, letting me savor his lips. God. I’m spinning, turning, coiling like a spring that is ready to be fired, and I shouldn’t be.
Then all at once, he steps back, ripping himself away from me. He takes several steps back.
I'm left panting, breathless. Naked.
The room spins around me, and I’m more than lightheaded. It’s as if he’s taken all the oxygen out of me and filled me with deep arousal.
“I’m glad to see you aren’t wearing a wire,” he says.
I blink, my mind catching up with the situation.
Shit.
Hawk's hand grips my wrist tightly, squeezing just enough to almost hurt. He then forces me against him again, but there’s no kiss. He only whispers in my ear, his voice laced with menace.
“We’ll protect you in exchange for the information you have on the Dead Demons. But do not cross me.” He releases me abruptly, leaving me trembling in his wake.
”I hope you have a goodnight, darling,” he says before walking out of the living room and down the hall. I bend down, gathering my clothes to put them back on. My legs feel weak as though they might give out at any moment.
I can’t believe that just happened.
I swallow, my heart pounding in my chest. There's no going back now.
When I finally make it back to my place, it’s the early hours of morning and the golden sun mixes with the black night along the horizon.
Long shadows stretch over the concrete, giving the dawn a vaguely sinister feel.
My mind continues replaying the last hours, over and over. My nerves are still jittery as I approach my front porch, fumbling for my house keys as I unlock the door.
Why did I like it as much as I did?
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my mailbox slightly ajar.
I flip open the mailbox and there it is. A letter that definitely wasn't there this morning, accompanied by something that sends a chill through me—a drawing of a marionette doll, unnervingly detailed and strangely non-descript all at once.
The unsettling feeling deepens when I notice something else: attached to the letter is an actual tiny doll leg. It's a small, crafted piece of wood, jointed and painted down to the detail of red color toenails.
I unfold the letter, half expecting to find threats, but there’s only a short message in a crisp, blocky handwriting that offers no clue to its author:
"Let’s see if you can dance to someone else’s tune."
No words, no return address, but I know who it’s from.
No one knows about my little obsession with marionette dolls except for...
I swallow the bile in my throat and shove the leg and letter into my bag then rush inside, quick to lock my door behind me.
Do I call the police? This could be a warning. It has to be. From Hawk? It’s not like he beat me to my house in time to leave a note like this. Or perhaps he decided on planting it the first night I was at the clubhouse.
I might be way out of my league on all this, but I’m still no closer to figuring out where Laina is, but something deep within me tells me Hawk knows something. The way he questioned me and commented on me wearing a wire.
He knows something is up, and that’s a problem.
Either way, they might be watching me and if they see me getting the police involved could put a huge red x on my back.
I remember the metal work scattered around Hawk’s apartment and his hands. Long, defined fingers marked with scars and calluses of a craftsman. It wouldn’t be that huge of stretch to believe that he’s some sort of artist, one good enough to make these marionette dolls. Though, metal and wood aren’t the same medium.
My stomach flips at the thought of his mouth on mine, those hands. Potentially the hands of a killer.
I pace around my house. All the windows and doors are still locked with no sign of forced entry. At least they didn’t make it in.
Finally, I sink into my couch.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the drawing and doll leg. The note is cryptic and terrifying, in its own twisted way.
Either way, first thing in the morning, I need to at least find Reynolds and give him the doll leg.
It’s evidence after all.