Chapter 3
3
ATLAS
A piercing crack of gunfire jolts me awake, and I bolt upright, hand automatically clutched over my left shoulder. The sharp pain there—as agonizing as it was the day it happened—brought on by my dream slowly dissipates to the dull ache that seems to be my constant companion the longer I hold it.
Cold sweat covers my body, and I tremble violently.
I struggle to suck in a deep breath, my chest heaving in the dark as I fumble on my nightstand and flip on the light.
My fingers itch to reach into the drawer and pull out my gun. The natural instinct to protect myself, to defend myself from the threat, gets harder and harder to shake each time this happens, even though I know it’s only a dream.
The same one I’ve had almost every night since the shooting that makes it impossible for me to get a good night’s sleep. Which, in turn, adds exhaustion to my struggles in the ring every day when I get in it.
Fucking hell…
I toss back the covers and drop my feet onto the hard tile. It immediately helps cool my heated skin, but it does nothing to temper the anxiety threatening to suffocate me.
It was just a dream.
Logically, I know that. And I know Daniele Roselli is dead. I watched him die right in front of me. So is the man who fired the bullet that destroyed my shoulder at Dan’s order.
None of that knowledge seems to help, though.
I run my hands back through my hair and release a frustrated scream that cuts through the still air, images of that day bombarding my brain as the ache in my shoulder reminds me that it’s never going to leave.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand with an incoming call, lighting up the darkness of my room, and Astrid’s name flashes across the screen.
Fuck.
Damn twintuition.
She probably woke up the same way I did—filled with panic and unable to gather any sense of control.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
I can’t handle this conversation with her right now—or ever, really.
Ignoring my phone, I stand and rush out of the bedroom and down the steps into the living room, beelining straight for the bar to pour myself a drink. My hands shake so badly, trying to grasp the decanter, that I don’t even bother. I place my palms flat against the wooden surface and drop my head, attempting to control my breathing.
My skin itches and tightens, my entire body vibrating hard enough to rattle the bottles and glasses on the bar.
I have to get out of here, have to go somewhere else.
There was a time when the first place I would head was across the hall.
But not anymore.
I can’t go there—not to where it happened.
It doesn’t matter that all the repairs were made within a week of the shooting or that Isaac and Jack’s condo is back to how it once appeared. It still holds the echoes of the attack, so fresh and real that even their company can’t make it any better for me in that space.
Thank God they’re moving into their house soon …
Though, another family member is likely just to take up residency since Hawke Enterprises owns the building and that condo has been lived in by a Hawke for two generations. Nobody wants to get rid of it, which means Coen or Astrid will probably end up over there, or maybe even Bishop.
And that means I’ll have to figure out a way to spend time over there again without panic seizing my chest.
That seems pretty far out of reach at the moment.
I push off the bar, scramble back up the stairs, tug on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then shove my feet into my shoes and head straight for the front door. Snagging my keys off the small table next to it, I don’t even hesitate for a moment before tugging the door open.
Before the attack, there were only two places I could go to try to unleash all this tension—the gym or the club. And the gym no longer holds that ability. My anxiety ramps up there as the pain slices through me with each punch I take.
The club it is.
I slip out into the hall, careful to close the door quietly behind me in case Isaac or Jack are awake with the baby in their living room. The last thing I need is for them to hear me leave in the middle of the night and have to answer their questions.
I’m already going to have to deal with Astrid in the morning.
Which won’t be pleasant.
Having someone literally be your other half isn’t always everything it’s cracked up to be.
I make my way to the elevator, and the doors slide open immediately, inviting me inside. Leaning back against the metal wall, I enter the code required to get down to the parking garage, and the car starts to descend.
The rush of movement downward starts to lull away some of the last vestiges of the dream. Closing my eyes, I drop my head against the wall, but that fucking nightmare still lingers there.
That sound of the first shot shattering the window.
The girls screaming.
Benjamin’s wails as the baby reacted to the noise and the chaos.
Scrambling over the couch to try to get to them.
Each successive shot another chance to lose one of them as I tried to find any way to get us out of there alive.
My chest tightens again, and I rub at it, even knowing it won’t do any good.
It never does.
Nothing helps when I’m like this.
The elevator finally dings and opens to the parking garage, and I unlock the Range Rover and slide into the driver’s seat, firing it up and letting the roar of the engine and the rumble of the frame roll through me.
I click on my belt, then back up, and barely wait for the garage door to lift before I slip under it and tear out onto the street.
A light drizzle falls, like it always does this time of year in New Orleans. This late at night—or early morning, more accurately—the streets are eerily still and silent. Weaving through them easily, my hands still shake, clutching the wheel, and by the time I turn down the street that holds The Hawkeye Club, its bright neon sign with the wing logo glowing in the darkness feels like a beacon of hope.
Some might see it as a call to the seedier elements of town, but to the rest of the Hawkes and me, it’s like a second home. And tonight, hopefully, the one place I can find some relief.
My eyes track across the street to the open spot that once held the massive tree that fell during the hurricane and took out the sign. But if you didn’t know what had happened, all you would think is that something died and they needed to plant a new tree to fill the space.
Some days, it feels like that for me, too—like a part of me died that day.
I’d give my life over and over again to save the girls and Benjamin, but I never foresaw what it would do to me physically and mentally when I took that bullet for them.
It’s still too raw to see the end of it.
Which means more and more nights like this…
I pull into the club, parking in one of the spots reserved for family, climb from the car, lock it, and jog to the heavy black door. The low throbbing bass vibrates out through it, and when I open it and step inside, the floorboards under my feet pulse with each note.
At 3:00 in the morning, no one will be here.
Uncle Savage and Dad will be at home asleep. Saint and Caroline won’t be in their offices upstairs, either. Kennedy works late, but not this late, especially now that she’s shacked up with Cass and Charlotte at his house.
Which means I might actually get a little peace tonight.
But as I scan the bar, my eyes meet a familiar raised dark brow.
Shit.
Coen.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I almost back out of the club, but he’s spotted me now. There’s no getting out without answering a few fucking questions.
Dammit.
Coen watches me approach one of the empty stools with a penetrating gaze, and I sit on it as he grabs a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a glass. He pours me a double and slides it in front of me. “You look like you could use this, and I figure you wouldn’t be here at 3:00 in the morning if you didn’t need it.”
I scowl at him as I take it and bring it to my mouth, downing almost half of it in a single sip. A hiss slips from my lips at the burn, and the heavy, smoky flavor fills my throat and warms my stomach.
His eyes widen. “Wow, that bad, huh?”
Fingering the tumbler, I scan the clientele over my shoulder—mostly regulars and what appears to be a bachelor party—to give me anything to do other than enter this discussion with him. “What are you doing here tonight?”
I turn back around in time to catch the corners of his lips twitch.
“Nice attempt to change the subject. I’ll let it slide for now.” Coen motions out over the club. “Turns out half the club staff got the flu.”
“No shit.”
He nods and gives me a hard smile. “Yeah. So, when they’re short-staffed, who are they going to call?”
Not me.
I made it very clear to everyone at a very young age that I had no intention of working for the family. Not falling in line with the Hawke vision of my future makes me the rebel, and choosing to enter the ring professionally—against Nana’s explicit wishes—might as well have labeled me as a pariah. But Coen is a close second when it comes to bucking tradition and rejecting familial expectations.
His inability to commit to any one path in life has left Uncle Stone and Aunt Nora reeling, especially since Isaac always had such a clear picture of what he wanted and how he was going to get it.
That’s left Coen twisting in the wind…and the go-to man when anyone needs help with any of the businesses, especially on short notice.
“Well”—I swirl my scotch—“if you had a real job, my dad and Savage wouldn’t always rely on you to fill in for everything.”
He scowls at me. “I do have other things going on, you know. I can’t always be at their beck and call.”
I smirk at him and take another sip of my drink. “Oh, yeah? Is that why you’ve been MIA the last couple of weeks? What have you been so busy with?” I raise a brow at him. “A girl?”
Coen shakes his head and points his finger at me. “Oh, no. If you’re not going to tell me what has you looking like somebody pissed in your Cheerios and got you out here at this godforsaken hour, then I’m not telling you what I’ve been up to, either.”
I raise my glass to him. “Fair enough.”
He turns back to put the bottle in its place and grabs a few beers for one of the waitresses. I spin around and sit with my elbows on the bar, wincing at the tug on my shoulder as I watch Mabel on the pole.
Her lithe body wraps around the metal elegantly, and she moves her hips to the beat of the song, swaying effortlessly and enticing the men along the edges of the stage to throw money at her mindlessly.
She spots me and winks, and I incline my head toward her in acknowledgment.
Of all the girls, she’s always been one of my favorites.
Sweet and somehow innocent despite what she’s doing for a living.
She tips her head back, and her long, flaxen hair cascades down her back. Watching her move, she quickly morphs in my head from the blond bombshell into the stunning, dark-haired beauty I saw this morning for the first time in twenty years.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since I left her in her studio space, replaying every word we said to each other, every look we exchanged.
Wren coming back to town has thrown me off my already fucked-up game. The sole thing I should be thinking about right now is how I’m going to beat Vince Gordon and take that belt. With training camp starting, having that woman working right next door is certainly going to make it a lot harder to concentrate on what I should be over the next three months.
It’s the fight of a lifetime.
Though, something tells me Gordon isn’t going to be my hardest opponent.
WREN
The glass cleaner barely cuts through the years of grime on the windows. I spray it on thicker and swipe at it again, over and over, until it finally starts to look shiny and clear the way it should.
I can’t really blame the Hawkes for not maintaining this side of the building when it has been empty for so long. After all, they only bought this place from Gramps all those years ago because he needed the money, not really because they needed to own the gym.
Gramps never would have kicked out the Hawkes or refused to train Atlas—not with the history he shares with them.
The insane loyalty and love he feels for that entire family goes far back, well before I was born, to when he trained Sam. And it is undying.
Part of me thinks he puts so much work into Atlas to try to make up for what happened to his grandfather. Even though Sam’s death wasn’t his fault, I can still see the pain in his gaze when he talks about him. Just as I could when I was little and watching the other Hawkes in the ring.
He saw his old friend in his sons and daughters and now their children.
And that’s the sole reason the Hawkes are down here in the 7 th Ward. Getting my typical clientele to come to this part of town is going to be difficult but not impossible.
I’m good at what I do, and all it takes is for the right people to mention it to their friends, and I’ll have full classes and a booked schedule for private lessons.
As the glass clears and I wipe away more and more of the grime from the sill, the early morning sunlight filtering in, my hopes start to lift that maybe my little studio can actually make it.
Dear God, please let this work.
The big man upstairs hasn’t always been good to me, but He came through when it mattered the most, so I can only hope He still has more good things coming my way.
Tears start to sting my eyes as I think about what I’ll be able to do for Gramps if this place really takes off, and I swipe one final time at the grime on the window and freeze with my hand pressed against the glass as a dark-green Range Rover pulls up in front of the gym with Atlas behind the wheel.
He parks and climbs from it with an easy grace that makes my knees wobble.
God, why does he have to be so hot?
Sunglasses slid over his eyes, blond hair spiked up, lips pressed together in a firm line, looking determined and ready for whatever awaits him inside. He slams his door, walks to the trunk, pops it, and pulls out a bag, throwing it over his right shoulder casually.
He slams the trunk closed, then rolls his left shoulder, wincing as he does.
Shit .
I could tell something was off when we talked yesterday and I asked him about the upcoming match, but he definitely shouldn’t be in that much pain just loosening it up.
It’s been months since the shooting. He had to have gone through physical therapy and all sorts of doctor-recommended treatments to get cleared to fight.
My gut churns, worry eating away at it for him as he faces the building and approaches. Even with the sunglasses covering his eyes, I can tell when they find me. His steps falter slightly, and the corner of his mouth tips up into a lopsided grin that makes something dangerous flutter in my chest.
Atlas Hawke is a big no-go.
The man is a boxing god who has women throwing themselves at him at every fight and every public appearance—and probably anywhere else he steps foot.
Don’t let your fantasies skew your sense of reality, Wren.
I swallow that thought, then avert my gaze and step back from the window, making my way to the small office and storage area tucked at the back of the studio so I can throw away the damp paper towels and try to regain a bit of composure.
Before I can even toss them into the garbage, the door separating the gym from the studio opens, the sound of the faintly squeaky hinge cutting through the otherwise silent air.
I freeze and squeeze my eyes closed.
Maybe I can hide in here and he won’t find me.
His heavy, sure footsteps echo across the wood, and I sense the moment he hits the doorframe, my entire body coming alive as my hair stands on end and heat floods my cheeks. “Good morning, Wren.”
The way he says my name sends a little shiver through me.
It’s still there—that same swagger and confidence.
Even as a child, he exuded that energy, and he always knew how to get me to smile. He always lifted me up and took my mind off the things in life I couldn’t control.
He was an incredible best friend back then, always checking to make sure I was okay, always protecting me from anyone and anything, whenever I needed it…until he couldn’t anymore. So, I have to get over whatever this is, or I’m going to risk losing that friendship I so desperately want back.
Swallowing my pride, I turn and face him, forcing a smile. “Good morning.”
He scans the small office—the old desk Gramps put in here for me, the stack of cleaning supplies on it, the wall of still-empty shelves that will soon hold everything I need to run the studio. “Well, isn’t it cozy back here?”
I fight a grin. “It doesn’t have to be big to make an impression, right?”
His eyebrows rise slowly as his eyes dip down over me, from the low-cut sports bra to my bare midriff and dropping to my leggings.
I would love to believe his perusal is sexual and approving, but I know what he can also see: all the scars covering the whole left side of my body—my torso, my arm, up along my neck, and onto my face.
I’ve never hidden them. I’ve never felt the need or desire to, until I set foot back here. All of a sudden, I’ve become self-conscious of the thing I’ve always used as a way to show people that they can move past what’s happened to them.
He reconnects his gaze with mine and gives me a little satisfied smile. “Good things come in small packages.”
Considering he’s a full foot taller than me, at least, the possibility that he might actually be giving me a compliment and enjoying what he’s seeing makes heat blossom between my legs.
I squeeze my thighs together and approach him, stopping a foot away, where I can smell the light scent of his soap and see the stubble growing on his jaw. “Shouldn’t you be over in the gym?”
He smirks, raising his right arm to press it against the jamb, blocking me from passing. “Your grandfather isn’t here yet.”
My back stiffens, concern immediately overtaking that glimmer of hope I just held. “What? Are you sure?”
I glance at my watch.
6:25.
Gramps never comes to the gym later than 6:00.
Ever.
At least, he never did when I was still here.
“Is he usually this late?”
Atlas shakes his head, but he doesn’t appear to feel the same worry I do. “No, but he mentioned being really tired last night, so he probably slept in.”
He offers a slight shrug, then clenches his jaw, likely to try to hide the fact that the simple motion pained him.
“Should I be worried?”
His gaze softens. “No, Wren. I’m sure he’s fine. If he isn’t here by 7:00, I’ll go looking for him, okay?”
As much as I hate to admit it, Atlas knows Gramps better than I do these days. If he isn’t concerned, then I have to try not to be—until there’s something to actually be concerned about.
I release a heavy breath. “Okay…”
The corners of his lips curl the tiniest bit, but he doesn’t look inclined to move of his own accord so I can reenter the main studio. And this already small office is starting to get far too claustrophobic.
I reach out and press my hand against his chest, the heat of his body and a little spark radiating through his thin T-shirt and into my palm as I give him a little nudge. “Well, I have more cleaning to do before they start delivering my reformers.”
His hard body doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift back a millimeter with my push. A solid slab of muscle and unmovable man who seems determined to stand his ground.
He chuckles, grinning at me in a way that ensures me he enjoys my attempt, then drops his arm and steps back, sweeping it out for me. “All you had to do was ask for me to move, Little Bird.”
Little Bird.
Oh God …
I shouldn’t love it so much hearing that old nickname fall from his lips, but it sends those butterflies fluttering through my stomach again and makes my head fill with a fog of hope I could get lost in.
Padding out into the studio on bare feet, I glance back at him, still near the office in his shoes. “No shoes in the studio from now on.”
He holds up his hands defensively as he wanders slowly over toward the door to the gym. “My apologies. It won’t happen again, ma’am .”
“Oh, God…” I laugh. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am’ again. That makes me feel so damn old.”
His responding chuckle comes deep and low, making my entire body tingle with the want to hear it again and again. “We’re the same age, Wren. In fact, I think I’m a few months older…”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, almost three.”
Atlas grins. “That’s what I thought.” He points a finger at me. “See? You may have been gone for a while, but I still remember everything about you.”
“Oh, do you now?”
That’s a pretty bold statement to make about someone he hasn’t seen in literal decades, but then again, Atlas was always the boldest Hawke. And I certainly remember every single detail about him, too.
He turns the handle and pops open the door but pauses halfway through it. “Of course, I do.” Those Caribbean-blue eyes he inherited from his mother heat. “I remember you had a pink flower in your hair the day we got married and that we drank 7-Up from champagne glasses after the ‘ceremony.’” He air quotes, and I can’t help but laugh. “And that your favorite color is yellow, and you love mint chocolate chip ice cream, even though I think it’s absolutely disgusting.”
“It’s good.”
He shakes his head. “If I’m indulging in ice cream, I don’t want a monstrosity that has mint and chocolate mixed together. I want obscene amounts of cookie dough.”
My eyes automatically drift over his muscular arms and chest and the six-pack I can see under his tight T-shirt. “I don’t know how you maintain that body eating the way you do.”
His eyes widen as he grins. “Your grandfather pushes me hard. That’s what I pay him for. But I am definitely going to have to cut back at Nana’s Sunday dinners and on the sweets once training camp starts.”
“When’s that?”
He releases a little annoyed sigh, like he isn’t looking forward to it in the least. “Monday…”
“Soon, then.”
His head bobs. “It’s a title fight. I need as much time as I can get to prepare for Gordon.”
My gaze drifts to his shoulder, the scars that I know are there and the injury lurking beneath them, concealed by his clothes. I want to say more, but I bite back the words, not wanting to upset him by pointing out the obvious.
It doesn’t matter if he has three months.
No amount of training on the bag or in the ring is going to heal the damage no one sees. If he doesn’t do something drastic and quickly, he’s not going to be ready.
He glances into the gym, then raps his tattooed knuckles against the jamb, offering me one more smile. “Your grandfather is here. ” He winks. “See, I told you not to worry.”
Easier said than done.
When I came back to be closer to Gramps, I never thought I’d end up having to worry about Atlas, too.
For all his bravado, strength, and energy and the confidence he exudes, he’s a man precariously balanced on a thin ledge that could lead to a major fall.