Rebel Hawke (Billionaires of New Orleans: The Hawke Family Second Generation #5)

Chapter 1

1

THREE MONTHS TO TITLE FIGHT

ATLAS

M ind-bending pain slices through my shoulder, sears down my arm, and radiates into the whole side of my body, before my left hook even lands on Bishop’s jaw. I grit my teeth, biting down on the mouth guard, practically tearing through it to keep myself from crying out. Bishop recoils slightly from the blow, but she almost immediately regains her balance and lands a jab against my sternum that sends me staggering back against the ropes.

“What the hell are you doing, Atlas?” Jenkins screams from directly behind me, his cracking voice heavy with concern and annoyance with my performance—or lack thereof. “Guard up . Stop pulling your punches.”

Fucking hell.

I can barely move my arm to keep it up. And I wish I were pulling punches. Instead, every time I try to land one, agony envelops me, stealing all the power I usually have in my blows, along with my breath half the time.

Which means I’m always on the defensive instead of being the offensive fighter I’ve been since I stepped into the ring as a child.

Land the first punch.

Keep your opponent against the ropes.

Exactly where I am now.

Where I don’t want to be.

“You’ll never fight again.”

The surgeon’s words echo in my head, but like I have for the last several months since he said the unthinkable to me, I push them away. Ignore them. Shove them deep inside and lock them in the same place I do the pain in order to go on every day.

Focus on the fight.

“Get your shit together!”

Jenkins’ voice finally breaks through and allows me to shake off the blow and zero in on the opponent in front of me. It doesn’t matter that we’re only sparring. If I can’t keep my head in the fucking match with Bishop, I won’t be able to when it really matters.

Bishop gives me a look. One I know all too well. One I’ve seen far too much in the past few months—and not solely from her.

Her dark bourbon eyes see the truth.

She’s on to me.

Isaac circles the ring with Vivi on his hip. “Let’s go, Atlas.”

Viviana claps, her bright blue eyes that match her father’s wide as she watches us. “Get him, Bishop. Finish him!”

Of course, the little traitor.

Leave it to a five-year-old to drive home the point that I’m currently losing a “friendly” sparring session when I’m the professional and Bishop isn’t even close to my weight-class—not to mention the fact that she’s a woman.

Fucking embarrassing.

Even worse than the blows to my pride if I come out on the wrong end of this fight, if I don’t end this soon, everyone’s going to know how bad my shoulder really is. They’ll know I’ve been lying to the physical therapists, my doctor, Jenkins, and to them.

Not to mention myself.

I can’t risk that.

With the hotel opening and Kennedy and Cass’ wedding both so close on the horizon, Satriano pulling strings and sticking his head in where it doesn’t belong, and everyone still reeling from what happened with the shooting, the last thing the Hawkes need is another problem to worry about.

As far as they’re concerned, I’m healed and doctor-cleared to get back in the ring. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.

I can’t let them see how truly weak I am.

Which means I can’t let Bishop kick my ass with a whole slew of Hawke witnesses.

Pull your head out of your ass, Atlas!

I push off the ropes and advance on her, ignoring the pain to throw a couple jabs to keep her back before a quick cross that normally would have put anyone on their ass— if I were actually anywhere near one hundred percent power.

It barely fazes her, glancing off her cheek, and before I can land another blow, she ducks and weaves out of the way, bouncing lightly on her feet.

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes on me, keeping her guard up. “Let’s go, Atlas.” Her words sound garbled from around her mouthguard. “Come at me like you mean it. Like I’m the fucker who put that bullet in your shoulder.”

Fury rolls through me like a wave off the gulf.

If the sniper weren’t already in the ground, I’d certainly have put him there myself—with my fists or a gun. I’m not fucking picky. But Daniele took care of him before I had the chance. All I can do is hope the man who did this to me suffered as much as I have been the last few months.

Just thinking about all the anguish draws a snarl from my lips and flips on the switch that earned me the name The Hurricane very early in my career, before I even went pro.

I push forward with a combination that sets up the perfect upper jab that sends Bishop sprawling onto her back. But I can’t enjoy it while agony threatens to make me lose my breakfast all over the mat.

Mouth guard caught between clenched teeth, I fight back the nausea, trying to keep from passing out or yacking. Neither of which would look good or be appreciated, especially by Jenkins.

My chest heaving, I stand over her, sweat dripping down my face and body, the exertion of the match and the pain enough to make me wobble on my feet.

I squeeze my eyes closed in a vain attempt to stop the room from spinning.

Cheers erupt from around the ring, breaking through the sound of blood rushing in my ears, and Astrid is suddenly in front of me, her eyes wide, smiling, talking a mile a minute, but I can’t hear a single word she says.

My gaze locks on Bishop and the concern in her furrowed brow.

Fuck.

This is going to be a conversation later—one I definitely don’t want to have.

The whooshing sound in my ears finally dissipates as the searing burn in my shoulder starts to ease.

“You looked good…” Astrid squeezes my bicep, drawing a wince I can’t cover. She glances down at the massive scar a few inches above her hand, then withdraws it. “Shit. I’m sorry, did that—”

“I’m fine.”

I bite it out through clenched teeth and around my mouth guard, but the look she gives me tells me she doesn’t buy it. Of all the Hawkes, she’s the hardest to lie to. Maybe it has something to do with having shared a womb that makes it so easy for her to read me, but she doesn’t even need to say a word to speak volumes.

I’ve been trying to keep what’s really happening from her for months, and she knows it. She’s given me space—at least, as much as is possible in this family and under these circumstances—but she’s reached the end of her patience when it comes to me withholding.

Thankfully, Jimmy waves me over to the ropes before Astrid can utter another word. She bends down to offer Bishop a hand up as I make my way over to the old man.

He leans against the red elastic cables, his white hair disheveled from running his hands through it during the entire sparring session. His lips twist as he watches me advance toward him. “You look like shit, kid.”

Not that I really believed Astrid when she said I had looked good, but I don’t need the verbal confirmation of how shitty I fought from the man who has committed his life to training fighters.

I scowl at him and spit out my mouth guard. “Gee, thanks.”

His wrinkled, weathered hands tighten around the ropes. “You want me to lie to you?”

That would be nice…

For one fucking day, I want to feel like I’m the same fighter I was before I took that bullet.

Just fucking one.

I scan the gym, from where Astrid is helping Bishop undo her wraps to Isaac and Viviana talking with Dad and Savage, then to Kennedy nose-deep in something on her cell. Normally, I wouldn’t mind having half the fucking family here for a morning session, but this is becoming a far too regular thing.

Like everyone’s checking up on me.

As if they can all see straight through all the lies I’ve been telling them and are waiting for me to finally crack and crumble before their eyes.

Not fucking today.

Jenkins raises a bushy white brow as he lifts the ropes to let me slip through. “Are you okay kid? Really?”

He should know I’m not.

After a lifetime of training me, he knows me almost as well as anyone in this room who shares my blood. But the sincerity of the question, the absence of his usually stony ribbing and aggressive pushing, gives me a moment of pause.

The truth sits on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back the same way I have the cries of pain from each swing I’ve taken with my left arm since I started rehabbing it.

“I’m fine.” I release a heavy breath. “You know I would tell you if I wasn’t.”

He snorts and shakes his head as he tears off my gloves and starts ripping the tape from my hands. “No, you wouldn’t, and neither did your father or your grandfather before you.”

I scowl at the old man. He may be the best trainer in New Orleans, but that also means he knows far too much about the Hawkes. Like the fact that none of us like to show even a sliver of weakness.

Before I can come up with some witty response, he frees my hands and Viviana races over and launches herself at me. “Atlas!”

I wince as I pull her up into my arms. “Kid, you have to learn not to do that after a session. I’m sweaty and disgusting.”

Plus holding her right now might be what finally knocks me on my ass.

Her little lips twist into a frown, and she scrunches up her nose in the most adorable, exaggerated fashion. “You do stink.”

“I know, kid.” Sweat drips down my temple and splatters on her dress, as if to prove the point. “I need to hit the showers.”

Isaac walks over and slaps me on the shoulder—thankfully the good one. “It looks like you could use a session with me. Bishop might be too much for you these days.”

It is meant as a good-natured joke and rip on his own “skills,” since he still bears a light scar on his brow from a dance with me last year, but it still hits me harder than Bishop did in the ring.

Isaac might be more my speed these days—not that big, mean fucker I’m supposed to be taking on in a few short months.

“Gee, thanks, Cuz. You want another scar?”

Kennedy approaches, glancing up from her phone only long enough to watch where she’s walking. “What’s going on? Are we threatening Isaac? Because I can have one of these heels off in a split second…”

Viviana’s little brow furrows. “Why would she take off her shoe?”

I jostle her slightly, ignoring the twinge across my collarbone. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Isaac definitely draws ire from most of the people he crosses paths with—family not excluded. Being her father won’t change that, and if their relationship is anything like mine with Dad, it might make things worse.

The man himself eyes me from across the gym with Savage, his lips pressed together in a firm line, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders tense with worry.

Dad sees it, too.

Unable to keep looking at him, I turn back toward the ring as Astrid and Bishop climb out. Astrid scoops Vivi from my arms and starts whispering conspiratorially with her as Bishop grabs my water bottle from the bench and shoves it in my chest.

“Looks like you could use this…” She raises a brow. “Or something stronger?”

With everyone crowded around me as I chug from the bottle, watching me carefully, claustrophobia starts to set in, making my skin tighten over twitching, aching muscles.

“Will you guys all knock it off? For the love of fucking God, I’m not some zoo animal.” I point to Kennedy. “Don’t you have to get to the hotel?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her stiletto-clad foot. “Cass is over there taking care of everything this morning. I haven’t been here in a while. I wanted to come watch.”

“Uh-huh. And you”—I point to Isaac—“don’t you have court?”

He grins and steals Viviana from Astrid. “Actually, I do. I’ll catch you later.”

She waves at everyone as he takes her out the door, looking annoyed at being ferried away from the gym. It’s the distraction I need to sneak off and head toward the locker room before anyone else can interject their thoughts.

At least, it should be.

But I hear Savage following behind me.

Shit.

Just what I don’t need.

He’s either going to call me out or trying to give me a pep talk I don’t fucking want right now.

I shove through the door and stalk over to the bench to dig in my bag for my clean clothes, but he catches it before it closes and enters the locker room, settling next to me without a word.

Hand clenched around my pants, I grit my teeth. “Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I glance over at him. “You don’t have to. I know what you’re thinking.”

He raises his dark brows slowly, watching me carefully, seeing far too much far too easily. “Do you?”

Tossing my jeans onto the bench, I scowl at him. “You’re always the one they send to say the things that no one else has the balls to.”

He snorts but doesn’t deny it because he can’t. “They’re just worried about you.” He glances toward the gym, then back at me. “Everyone would understand if you canceled the fight after what happened.”

And end my fucking career.

I should have had my shot at the title months ago, but instead, I spent weeks in the hospital and months doing rehab that hasn’t done shit to get my shoulder back to where it was before the shooting.

It left it open for Vince Gordon to sneak in and steal the belt right out from under me, but I am not about to let him keep it.

I clench my jaw, trying to keep myself from lashing out at Uncle Savage. “I’m fucking fine, Savage. The fight is supposed to be the main event for the grand opening of the hotel. What the fuck are you going to do if I bow out?”

He shrugs. “We find a replacement.”

Fuck.

I snort. “Nice to know I can be replaced so easily, but that’s not fucking happening—”

“And you’re not fighting the way you are right now.”

His words leave no room for argument. And when Savage lays down the law, no one questions it.

Except me.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I already have a father and a mother to baby me and tell me what I can and can’t do.”

I motion absently back toward the gym where Dad is undoubtedly discussing the session with Jenkins before he heads to the club and unloads it all on Mom so she can worry about me, too.

Savage chuckles. “Believe me, son, I’m well aware, but I’ve been where you are, trying to push too hard for something that…” He pauses for a second, like he’s contemplating his words and searches my face. “You’re going to hurt yourself even worse if you push beyond your limits.”

“The doctors cleared me.” That lie comes so easily after saying it so many times. The next one is harder. “I’m fine.”

He gives me a glacial look that has withered men half my strength. “I don’t know what you said to those doctors or what you paid them to clear you, but everyone who is here today can see you’re not at one hundred percent. Hell, you’re not at seventy-five. Even just sparring, you should have killed Bishop, and you know it. She walked all over you, made you look like a fucking amateur, not a light heavyweight contender. Everyone can see there’s something wrong, and you’re aware you’re not hiding it well.”

There it is, the reason Uncle Savage is the one in here instead of Dad or even Jenkins—because he doesn’t even flinch when I get into his face and sneer, barely containing my anger.

“If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

I grab my towel and jeans and storm back toward the showers, refusing to turn when he calls my name.

He’s only going to reiterate what he said and twist the knife in my back that’s already been driven squarely into my spine.

A reminder of what I know all too well.

I’m a fucking mess.

And with a title fight three months away, no amount of training is going to fix it.

WREN

Pulling up outside the gym brings a hurricane of emotions I hadn’t expected when I thought about coming home to New Orleans. Tears immediately sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I swipe them away as I suck in a steadying breath and throw the car into park across the street from the place where I spent so much of my childhood.

It still appears the same as it always did.

Unassuming.

Mildly dingy.

Not the type of place you’d think the Hawkes would frequent.

Yet fancy vehicles line the curb in front of the gym, and through the tinted glass, I can see people milling around, watching someone in the center ring.

Probably his star fighter…

Atlas.

Thinking his name is enough to make my chest tighten and my hands start to shake with the same anxious energy that has become so familiar since my decision to come back.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

My eyes drift to the space next to the gym. The dusty picture windows allow me a view of what was once a small real estate office when I was living here as a child but now only holds memories.

And my hope for the future.

After sitting empty for so long, it’s definitely seen better days.

So has Gramps.

I could hear it in his voice during our calls over the last several months. A waver that wasn’t there before. An exhaustion that doesn’t fit with the man I’ve always known him to be. Something he’s hiding or holding back. Which is why I can’t bail even though my nerves threaten to consume me at moments like this.

Gramps needs you here.

No matter how hard it might be coming back and facing the life I left behind, at least I won’t have to do it today. If I go now—while the Hawkes are all occupied next door—I can get in and out before anyone sees me.

Though, it isn’t just anyone I’m worried about.

Atlas Hawke has lived and breathed in my dreams for so long, that the thought of seeing him again in the flesh makes goosebumps rise on mine.

Better go now, while he’s still occupied in the ring.

I turn off the car, step out onto the street, close the door, and wait for a few cars to pass before I bolt across the two lanes of traffic. As Gramps promised when I told him I would stop by today, the glass door is unlocked for me, and I tug it open and step inside.

The faint smell of the gym next door permeates the almost- empty space, but swept wood floors and the new wall of mirrors along the left side draw a smile on my face for the first time in months.

It’s perfect.

When Gramps said he could get it set up to be my new studio, I thought he was joking. This place has always been a dump, no matter what was here over the years. But by simply cleaning a little and installing that one simple thing, somehow, he has started to pull it off.

Probably with the help of the Hawkes.

Their loud voices carry over from the other side of the building, slipping through the closed connecting door—which I’m apparently going to have to ask Gramps to seal better.

And not just to keep out the noise and smell.

To keep the man who trains next door away for as long as possible, at least until I can gather my wits enough to face him.

I reach into my purse and pull out a notepad and pen to start jotting down a to-do list and to draw a quick sketch of the layout for all the machines. The ten reformers I’ve already ordered can definitely fit, in two rows, one on either side of the space.

Maybe even twelve…

The longer I’m here, the easier it becomes to imagine what this could be with a little work. Clean the windows. Repaint. Polish these floors. Grab a little greenery and other décor.

Maybe it won’t be so bad…

It might be wishful thinking on my part, but I’m able to block out the voices from next door and concentrate on the future—not the sounds of my past—until all that background noise starts to trail off.

The door swings open behind me, and I freeze, my pen poised over my growing list as my heart lodges in my throat.

Shit.

I hold my breath as someone approaches with heavy, uneven footsteps. “Wren, you made it.”

Oh, thank God.

Air rushes from my lungs, and I spin toward Gramps, tears returning to my eyes as soon as they land on him for the first time in almost two years. He hobbles over to me, his limp more pronounced than it was the last time I saw him, the lines and wrinkles on his face deeper.

He pulls me into a hug, his grip still strong and comforting despite his growing frailty. “Did you see what I got set up for you?”

My gaze drifts toward the Pilates Cadillac reformer already waiting in the back corner, and I pull out of his hold. “I did. Thank you.”

It looks so lonely in here right now, surrounded by vast emptiness and stale, faintly sweaty air, but it won’t be this way for long. Not with what I have planned. Soon, I’ll have new clients and classes running daily, and I can start rebuilding my life in New Orleans.

Gramps loops his arm through mine and walks us over to the beautiful machine. “I’ve already gotten calls from two or three people about making other deliveries this week. Ten reformers, chairs…” He waves his hand absently. “A bunch of other crap I don’t understand.”

I laugh and press a kiss to his rough, stubbly cheek. “I know you think Pilates is bullshit, Gramps, but I’m telling you, you should do it. It would help loosen up these old joints of yours.”

He scowls. “You know I’m not into your hippie shit.”

Grinning, I squeeze his arm. “It isn’t hippie, Gramps. Joseph Pilates was a German physical trainer, and he invented the method in the early 1900s.”

“Whatever.” He flicks his free hand dismissively. “I’ll stick to bashing people’s faces in with my fists.”

I snort. “You would.”

If his body allowed him, Gramps would still be in the ring himself instead of simply training people. Jimmy Jenkins didn’t put down his own gloves easily—or so I heard as a kid—and he’ll likely spend every waking moment of his remaining life in that gym with Atlas and his other fighters. Unable to tear himself away from the violence and thrill that the ring brings him.

Something I’ve never really understood.

I glance toward the closed door and clear my throat. “Is that what was going on in there? Someone bashing in someone else’s face? It sure sounded like it…”

His bushy white eyebrows wing up. “You should have come over and said, ‘Hello,’ if you’ve been here long enough to have heard that. Kennedy, Astrid, Gabe, and Savage were all here to watch Atlas’ spar with Bishop this morning.”

Images of the tattooed Hawke, muscles bunching and flexing as he swings at his opponent flash through my head. Even though I’ve only ever seen his matches on television, my body heats as if I had been ringside, witnessing the action live.

All that focus.

All that passion.

All that power.

I swallow thickly and set my purse, notebook, and pen down on the floor to examine the Cadillac machine and ensure that it’s been assembled properly. Giving me something— anything —else to focus on but those mental pictures.

Running my hands over the gleaming polished metal, ropes, and smooth straps, my fingers already itch to get into it, to stretch out after so many long days driving here and moving boxes into my new place.

“I’m sure I’ll see them plenty, Gramps. Doesn’t need to be today.”

Because though I’m feeling better about the future of this business endeavor, I am definitely not ready for Atlas or the rest of the Hawkes.

Gramps hobbles over and grips one of the support beams, resting his weight against it, and I frown. Of course, I knew his health was getting worse, but this is by far the frailest I’ve ever seen him. At eighty-five, he looks as though he might be a hundred.

“Are you okay, Gramps?”

He averts his gaze for a moment, focusing on a spot he rubs away from the metal. “I’m fine, Birdie. Happy you’re here. I’ve missed having you around.”

The nickname he’s used with me since I was a child helps ease some of the anxiety that’s been constricting my ribcage since I parked outside. Just being here with him makes me believe it might be possible to make this work and not lose my peace in the process.

“I’ve missed you, too, Gramps.”

His lips twist into a grin. “And once you have this place up and running, it’ll be great. I’ll get to see you every day.”

I smile at him. “That’s the plan.”

The entire reason I moved back to New Orleans after all this time was for Gramps, and now that I’ve seen him, I know it was the right decision. The only man who has ever shown me unconditional love and support needs mine now, so no matter how difficult it is to be back, I need to be here for him.

I have to give him what he gave me when no one else would or could.

Before I can lose myself in tears again, movement in the front windows draws both of our attention, and an immaculately dressed blonde with a cell phone to her ear walks to a Mercedes parked at the curb, pops open the door, and slides in.

Gramps motions with his thumb. “Kennedy, likely off to work on more wedding plans.”

“Wedding?”

He grins at me. “You’ve missed a lot. I need to catch you up on all the Hawke gossip.”

“Clearly.”

Though news of my former childhood friends has trickled into our conversations over the years, as of late, Gramps has been awfully quiet about what’s been going on with the Hawke clan.

“Things have definitely been busy around here, Wren. You won’t want for any sort of entertainment with the Hawkes around all the time.”

I trail my fingers along the polished wood of the Cadillac as I move closer to him. “I hear they’re opening a hotel.”

One of the tidbits I’ve picked up in the news while Googling for the information he hasn’t been giving me. It would have been hard to miss that announcement or the updates. When it comes to that family, they do everything big , and that hotel is no exception.

Boutique.

Opulent.

Exclusive.

Picture perfect.

Very Hawke.

They’ve always been in another league, on a completely different level from how I grew up, handed and given the best of everything and afforded opportunities I never could have dreamed of. The Hawke Hotel will be no exception, and it will undoubtedly make them billions like the clubs, restaurants, and all their other businesses already do.

Once, I was brought into their fold, treated like one of them while under Gramps’ wings, but once I was snatched away, I knew there would be no coming back without it being incredibly painful.

Gramps nods. “Been building it for a while now. Opening night is scheduled for three months.” He motions back toward the gym. “Atlas is supposed to have a title fight that night.”

“Really?”

That must be a relatively new development, because I somehow didn’t see it during the time I’ve been packing and planning this move.

He nods, his brow furrowing in a way that makes my gut tighten.

“Is he…ready for it?”

Gramps’ shoulders stiffen.

Shit, I know that look.

Something is off— wrong —and it’s bothering him more than he’s willing to let on. Maybe related to the shooting a few months back. That news was impossible to miss, the way the story was plastered all over the newspapers and gossip sites across the Gulf Coast.

He clears his throat and gives me a tight smile. “Hopefully, he will be.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

Sadness flashes across his pale green gaze. “There’s only so much I can do, Birdie. You, of all people, should understand that sometimes, physically, people just aren’t capable of doing what they may want to in their head.”

His words make tears prick in my eyes again, and I reach out and throw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. “I’m so happy to be home.”

He squeezes me back. “I’m happy to have you here, Wren, but you can’t avoid the Hawkes forever. You know that, right?”

Goddamn him for knowing exactly what’s going on in my head.

I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to come back to New Orleans.

Take the good with the bad.

The Hawkes may have been some of my closest playmates as a child, but a lot has changed. Things that won’t be easy to face, but I’ve spent years preparing myself for peoples’ reactions and learning to brush them off. I just have to do the same with my old friends.

Gramps releases me, then limps back toward the door. “I need to go take care of some stuff. You staying or leaving?”

I gaze longingly at the Cadillac. “I think I’m going to stay, stretch out a bit. All that moving boxes and driving…”

“All right, sweetheart.” He turns the knob and tugs open the door separating the spaces. “I will leave the key when I take off so you can lock up when you’re done. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course.” I grin at him and scan the space, bringing up that vision that had formed in my head earlier. “I have to start getting everything set up.”

He nods. “I’ll see you then.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I kick off my shoes and bend over, trying to stretch a little before I move into a full-on flow on the reformer.

Tight muscles scream in protest after not doing a workout for a full week, and I arch and raise onto my tiptoes to release my lower back. A groan falls from my lips as it finally does, and I lower my heels, ass in the air, as the door opens behind me again.

I freeze, and the air around me crackles with an energy that doesn’t belong to Gramps. Even after so long, I recognize it instantly.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Slowly, I rise to my full height, keeping my back to the new visitor to my future studio space—who needs absolutely no introduction. He has lived rent-free in my head for so long, him entering the room almost feels like one of my fantasies coming to life.

Or maybe a nightmare.

“Well, well, well…”—the door clicks closed and slow footsteps advance toward me as Atlas’ words rumble through my bones, raising goosebumps on my skin—“the prodigal wife returns.”