Chapter 6
Hawk
TW: discussions of child death/drowning.
“Hawk,” Marissa whispers as soon as they’re gone. “Hawk, please. Talk to me.”
“Can’t,” I mumble. “Need to sleep.”
“Hawk!” She hisses. “I don’t think you should sleep right now. You’re hurt. Let’s talk for a bit.”
I don’t respond, so she continues. “Are your parents still in Paradise Valley?”
“No, they’re currently on a Caribbean cruise, enjoying their retirement.”
“Are you guys close? What were they like growing up? Do you have any siblings?”
I stifle a gasp when the familiar lash of pain slices my gut. I almost hope some of my ribs are broken. At least those heal eventually.
“I had a baby sister. She died when I was 6.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Marissa says in a wobbly voice.
“She wasn’t even three yet. I came home from school one day, and she was gone. Just like that. She’d wandered out to the pool and… Our family was never the same again.”
“Your poor parents, I can’t even imagine.”
“It all went to hell after that. Mom and dad kinda avoided each other,” I rasp out, too weak to erect my usual defenses against the topic.
My leg is throbbing, and so is my heart.
“But sometimes it felt like they avoided me as well, so I tried making them happy whenever we were together, which, as you can imagine, would’ve been hard for anyone, let alone a six-year-old. ”
“That’s an awful burden for a child,” Marissa muses, and I feel myself drifting off again.
“What was your sister’s name?”
“Amanda. Mandy,” I almost whisper the nickname that had become taboo in our home.
“It’s beautiful. I bet she loved her big brother,” Marissa says, and her voice is thick.
I feel like I’m a six-year-old boy again.
“I wish I could tell you something to make it better,“ she adds, and I chuckle, even though it fucking hurts.
“It’s the natural instinct, isn’t it, whenever we see a wounded member of our species - to heal, to soothe, to help. Admittedly, I took it to an extreme level. First, I practiced on my parents, and then it led me to the police academy.”
“You’re a cop?” The incredulity in her voice is amusing.
“Retired,” I explain.
“Did it help, at least? Being a cop,” she clarifies.
I glance at the skylight as I ponder the question.
“In the beginning, I was convinced that helping as many people as I could would finally fix this void inside of me. Instead, there was no way to fight the tide of sadness and horror that came with being a police officer. Every day meant another overdose, another mistreated kid, another battered woman, another acquitted rapist, and before I knew it, I was a high-functioning alcoholic with PTSD. When I drank, I no longer had to feel all that anger, anxiety, frustration, disappointment, guilt, shame, worry, self-pity…”
I’m on edge as I wait for her to say something. Anything.
“And after you got sober? How did you handle it?”
“I left the force. I had to learn how to cope with negative feelings without alcohol, and my job was making that very difficult. I went to meetings, surrounded myself with like-minded people... I still get the urge to drink sometimes, but now that alerts me there’s something I’m not dealing with the way I should. So I handle things differently now. ”
“By blowing up meth labs?” She teases, and I chuckle through the pain.
Why not tell this kind, stunning woman the truth, on what might be my last day on this Earth?
“I’m part of an MC. We’re not like your ex’s club, though.
We’re a sober club first, bike club second.
We try to find ways to serve the community, help those in need, and overall, we’re about giving people second chances. ”
Thinking of my brothers and sisters overwhelms me. The homesickness is almost a tangible lump in my throat.
“I’ve never heard of a motorcycle club like that.”
“There’s many different types of MCs,” I say, wishing I could sit up. “Sober clubs, Christian clubs, clubs for firefighters and their families, and Native American MCs, like the Rez Riders.”
“Wow. I had no idea. I’ve always had this stereotypical, bad-boy view of MCs. Granted, the Gray Wolves are the only MC I’ve had any real contact with, and that was always as somewhat of an outsider.”
“And for some of them, you’d be right. But the essence of every club is social; it’s a brotherhood centered around riding, and if they share a common overarching goal other than that, that’s even better. For some clubs, that’s faith, for some, that’s business and making money.”
“And for you guys, it’s, what, doing good in the world?”
“More like undoing the bad.”
“And you tried undoing your bad by blowing up the meth lab?”
I bark a laugh, but the pain in my ribs turns it into a groan.
“Watch it, Marissa Johnson.”
“Fine, Mister… Hawk? Not fair. I don’t even know your name.”
“You know the one that matters,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.
She hisses as she tries to stretch her upper body.
“Everything alright over there?” I ask, and she looks embarrassed.
“Well, when not nursing my son, I’m supposed to pump or express milk in order to prevent a milk duct blockage, and I obviously haven’t been able to, so now my boobs kind of hurt. The corset isn't helping, either.”
It takes all my strength not to look at her chest right then.
“I feel like such an idiot.” She laughs bitterly as she shakes her head at herself. “You have no idea how long it took me to decide what to wear to impress Dylan the most. And it’s only brought me pain, literally.”
I want to tell her she looks more beautiful than anything or anyone I’ve ever seen in my life, but it doesn’t seem appropriate.
“So… the meth lab?” She speaks up after a while.
“Right. My club caught wind of some lowlife dealers targeting high school students in our area, so a few of us drove out to their lab and blew it up.” I try shrugging and regret it immediately.
“I guess someone saw us, because I was ambushed and tased in a grocery store parking lot three days later.”
“What happens now?” Marissa asks in a small voice.
“Now, the boss of that meth operation gets here and he either ransoms or kills me,” I say bluntly, and she shudders.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are feverish. Something’s off.
“Can’t your club save you?”
“I don’t think they know where I am. Once they noticed I was gone, I’m sure they traced my car and phone to the store, but even Beavis and Butthead know to avoid cameras, so that won’t be very useful to them. Are you okay?” I ask with a frown.
“Yes, why?”
“You’re shaking.”
“I don’t think I am? I mean, I feel jittery and my whole body aches, but it’s cold in here, and I’m wearing next to nothing.”
“Could you be getting sick?”
“Shit. I don’t know. It’s hard to know what’s a symptom and what’s from being tied up this whole time.”
We agree to try to sleep for a while.
I have a nightmare again, but it’s not one of my usual ones.
I dream of Marissa. She’s crying, beaten and bruised, and I’m running towards her for what feels like miles and miles.
Unfortunately, I’m on some kind of a treadmill and can’t come any closer.
I wake up drained. It’s almost worse than not sleeping at all.
I look over at her, and her sleep seems equally restless. She’s twitching, and her face is coated in a sheen of sweat. I’m starting to get worried. The skylight tells me it’s either dusk or dawn. There’s no way to know.
*
I dream that I’m falling and falling, and once I reach the ground, the pain the full-body jerk causes in my ribs pulls me back into reality.
I’m hanging in an incredibly uncomfortable position in my overturned chair. One side of my face is wet with either blood or drool, and I have no way to dry it.
“Marissa,” I call out, and her blue eyes turn to me. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” she says, attempting a smile. “You?”
The large, metal door of the room suddenly opens. Marissa and I exchange a worried glance. So far, the kidnappers only showed up when the sun was directly above us. I motion my head at her and immediately pretend to be asleep, hoping she’ll follow suit.
“Did you really think you could hide from me, my darling Rebel?” A deep voice asks as it draws closer.
My entire body tenses.
“And who do we have here?” He's clearly surprised.
I take a peek and recognize the newcomer immediately from the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He’s leaning over Marissa and touching her face. I want to slap his hand away.
“My name is Marissa Johnson,” she says politely, hoping, perhaps, that her good manners will show him that she’s just a mom who has nothing to do with meth labs or drug dealers. “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake.”
“I’m afraid I agree,” the Preacher says, straightening before turning to the kidnappers. “What have you two idiots done? How the fuck did you get the wrong woman?”
The two men look terrified.
“This is her! We memorized the photo you sent out. We watched the bitch for days! She was always with the club brother she’s fucking, and we saw them arrive at the party together. The first chance we got her alone, we grabbed her,” Butthead protests.
“Care to weigh in? What were you doing when these two gentlemen grabbed you?” The Preacher asks Marissa.
“I was at the Gray Wolves compound for a New Year’s party. I went out for some air, and that was when they grabbed me. I think I know how the mistake happened,” she says, which seems to amuse the drug lord greatly.
“Do tell, Miss Marissa Johnson.”
I wish I could grab Marissa and get the hell out of here, away from this man. She seems too exhausted and unwell to fully comprehend who she’s talking to.
“You called me Rebel when you walked in. Did you think I was Rebel, the sister of the Gray Wolves’ Prez?”
The first crack in the Preacher’s composure shows. His face contorts almost imperceptibly as he nods; it’s back to normal before I can tell whether in anger, pain, or disgust.
“Rebel was at the party too,” Marissa says bitterly, and he raises an eyebrow. “The club brother she’s sleeping with is Dylan, my old man and the father of my child. His road name is Slim.”
“That does sound like my Rebel. So, you have a child with this Slim?” When Marissa nods, he takes a moment to walk around the room, humming thoughtfully. “And how long have the three of you had this arrangement?”
“There was no arrangement," Marissa tells him quite rudely. "I only found out about the affair on the night of the party. Apparently, Rebel dumped Dylan years ago, and he never got over her. That's why he started dating me. These two aren’t the only ones who thought I looked like her.”
I hate the amount of pain and resentment in her tone. I run my tongue over my teeth, only to recoil at how dirty they feel.
“Ah. I understand.” The Preacher walks around some more.
“I wanted to... talk to Rebel, but I find myself in quite a conundrum. See, a man in my position has to be very careful. I have a reputation to protect. We don’t want people to think that they can steal from my personal safe and get away with it,” he says with obvious distaste.
“On the other hand, there are certain business dealings my bosses have with various players in this little game. I’ve been told that the business takes precedence over my personal grudge.
Even cartels have a code of conduct, contrary to what you may have been shown on TV.
I had hoped an independent third-party contractor might be able to help me out without attracting attention, but I think we can all see how well that’s worked out. ”
The Preacher spreads his arms. “And here we are. Unfortunately for you, little Marissa Johnson,” he says with a smile that chills me to the core.
Marissa doesn’t respond. She just hopelessly stares at the floor.
“She looks unwell. Have you given her anything?” He asks the third-party contractors.
The two idiots shake their heads.
“She’s sick,” I speak up.
“No one asked the peanut gallery,” the Preacher tells me dismissively.
I bristle. “But she is, very, and she has a little boy at home waiting for her.”
He gives me a look that implies I’m insane for even bringing that up to him, but then raises his eyebrows as if intrigued. He starts pacing the room, muttering to himself. “Yes. That might upset her. Good.”
“Listen up. You two morons will be letting Miss Johnson go,” he finally announces.
“What?” Beavis’ disbelief borders on defiance. “And the money?”
“That money was for whoever delivers Rebel to me. Is this Rebel?” The Preacher gestures to Marissa with his eyebrows raised.
Butthead tries to calm his friend. “We can ransom her to the MC.”
“Do you have a cognitive issue in addition to your vision problems? Why would her cheating man pay money to get her back?” The druglord taunts them. “Just drop her off at the hospital and thank your lucky stars that I didn’t blow your heads off for wasting my time.”
“Yes, sir,” they mumble, and the three of them head for the door together.
The Preacher turns to us before leaving the room and says, “Good luck, Miss Marissa Johnson.”
After the door closes, she calls out to me. “Hawk, do you think they’ll let me go?”
“I don’t see why he would lie to us,” I tell her with a reassuring smile, trying to memorize every single feature on her face.
I’m glad she’s the last woman I’ll see before meeting my Maker. For a moment, I wish we had more time together. Maybe dying would scare me less if I knew the feel of her hand in mine.
“Who can I call for you? What’s your club’s name? Your prez? Hurry!”
“Marissa, no. I don’t want you involving yourself further in this once you’re free. Your responsibility is to your son above all else. I won’t hold it against you.”
“Stop, stop, no.” She shakes her head frantically. “Don’t play the hero right now. Just tell me.”
Something in her gaze convinces me she needs to do this.
“Look up the number for Blue Security in Phoenix, call them, and ask to talk to Squid. Tell him… Tell him you know he’s my sponsor.
Tell him I miss Rat Park. He’ll know you’re for real then, and my club will come talk to you.
Tell them everything that happened, and maybe they’ll be able to find me. ”
“I’ll call, I promise,” she manages to croak out. “Blue Security, Phoenix, Squid the sponsor, Rat Park,” she repeats out loud several times.
I nod, and a muscle in my jaw pulses repeatedly. Unfortunately, we have no time for further reassurances because the creaking of the door announces that Beavis and Butthead are back.
Suddenly, I’m overcome with panic and fear. I don’t want to stay alone in this room. Before I can even look at Marissa again, the hood is back on her head, and she’s led from my sight.
I feel like I can’t breathe. She’s gone.