12. Veronica
Veronica
I cannot believe I’m going home with Hawk. A biker. A man I hardly know. A man whose large, strong hands guide me into the back of a cab. A man who is loved by teenage girls, trusted by parents, adored by his family.
He climbs in beside me and claps the driver on the shoulder. “Hey, Hank. You know where to go.”
“Good time tonight?” Hank, our driver, looks old enough that the state of Florida ought to make sure he should still be driving. But his hands are steady on the wheel, and he gives us a polite nod in the rearview as he heads out of the parking lot.
“What do you think?” Hawk asks me. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Great time,” I answer.
I haven’t been with a man in over a year.
I haven’t drunk like I did tonight in longer than that.
So what if I’m a little reckless, a little outside my comfort zone?
I feel safe with Hawk. He hasn’t shown me any sign that he’s a man who doesn’t understand what a woman means when she says no.
But I want to know if he’s the kind of man who knows what to do when a woman says yes.
I can’t imagine he’ll be selfish in bed. Those huge hands and the heat in his eyes make me feel like he’s already touched me almost everywhere.
Now I want that.
I want him.
I scoot as close to him as I can on the drive over, and he tucks me under his arm.
I rest my cheek against his shoulder, my hair spilling out over his neat black T-shirt.
He didn’t wear his club vest tonight, even though we rode his bike to the bar.
Something about that makes me wonder if I had anything to do with that decision.
Maybe he did it not just because of me, but for me. A man on a motorcycle with a woman behind him could just be a man out on a ride with his girlfriend or wife. A biker who wears some kind of uniform—that means something to the outside world.
I scratch my nails along the firm pectoral muscle in his chest while we ride in silence. “Where is your vest tonight?” I ask. That’s not the whole question on my mind, but the alcohol and the ride have my words muddled. Maybe my thoughts a little, too.
He holds me tighter against him. “It’s not like a tattoo,” he chuckles. “I can take it off when I want to.”
That’s enough of an answer for now. I have more questions, but I think better of them while Hank can listen in to everything we say.
Before I can decide if I should ask what’s on my mind, we pull onto a long, dark gravel drive. For a moment, my survival instincts kick in. I can’t see anything, and I lift my head to look for any clue where we are going.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“My cottage,” he says. He pulls out his phone and swipes on an app. Lights flicker on inside a cabin as the cab slows to a stop in front.
Hawk leans across the seat and again claps Hank on the shoulder before holding out a fistful of cash. “Thanks, buddy. You stay out of trouble.”
Hank waves Hawk’s money away. “Your uncle took care of me. You just get your lady friend inside and maybe light a few candles with this storm rolling in.”
Hawk tosses the cash onto the front seat. “This is my way of thanking you. And asking if you’ll come back in the morning when I need to go back for my bike.”
“You have my number,” Hank says.
We wish him goodnight, and I thank him, letting Hawk exit the cab first. He helps me out with a hand, and as the cab drives away, I stare at the cottage before us.
“Hawk,” I gasp. “This is incredible.”
The cabin looks old, but it’s meticulously maintained.
The driveway is long and narrow, leading up to a small front porch.
The soundtrack of swamplands is so loud, I’m immediately transported someplace else.
There is no traffic noise. No music or people talking.
It’s not even midnight yet, and I can see lights from other cabins in the distance, but the sounds of the night are amplified by the absolute utter quiet. Except for the rumble and chirps of…
“Are those frogs?” I ask, squinting into the darkness. “Are we that close to water?”
Hawk reaches for my hand and leads me inside. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
He unlocks the cabin with a key and motions me to go inside ahead of him.
The cottage has an open floor plan, and across a small living room, I see a kitchen that has been updated with every modern convenience. Despite the rustic look of the exterior, the sleek marble and stainless-steel appliances complement the simple but very homey decor in the living room.
A flat-screen TV is mounted on one wall. A large sectional sofa that looks comfortable enough to sink into has a few pillows and crocheted afghans folded over the back. I see magazine racks and bookshelves, but everything feels as if it’s been suspended in time. Clean and orderly, but not new.
“This belonged to my grandfather,” he says. He points to a closed door. “Bathroom. And the bedroom is next to it.”
We walk through the living room and kitchen and stand over the kitchen sink.
He points out through the large window at solar lights that are just barely glowing along a path that leads to something dark and massive.
“Is that water?” I ask.
He nods. “Come on.”
We walk through the kitchen door, and his grip on my hand tightens. He gestures through the darkness. “There’s a path that leads to a small dock, but we’re not going to go that far.”
We stop at a two-person porch swing with a shade awning that’s right outside the kitchen door.
“Interested?” he asks, the tease in his voice so sensual, little hairs lift on my arms underneath my bomber.
“Let’s sit.”
We sit side by side on the swing, our fingers woven together. We’re quiet, but the music of the night—the frogs, the bugs, the soft lap of the water—is so beautiful. I could stay here forever.
“This place,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, “is the only place I’ve ever been truly happy.”
That feels so vulnerable that I hold his hand tighter. I understand what it’s like to belong to a place. A place where memories of love and of something real are much realer than the life you’re stuck in now.
“Tell me about your grandfather.”
“Not much to tell,” Hawk says, but I don’t believe that.
So, I wait, the momentum of his body swinging us lightly in the chaise.
Eventually, he continues. “My pops spent most of his life locked up,” he explains.
“He died when I was pretty young in some stupid prison fight.” He laughs, but it’s a dry, bitter laugh.
“I have no doubt the asshole got what was coming to him. But my ma loved him. And not long after he died, she did too. The cigarettes, the booze, the sadness. My dad’s half sister took me in, but she was not exactly happy about raising a teenage boy.
Funny thing is, my grandpa, the man who owned this place, wasn’t even mine by blood and that marriage didn’t last long.
Ken hardly knew my family after he split from my grandmother.
But once my pops went away, he reached out to me. ”
Hawk’s quiet then, the soft sounds of the creak of the swing even louder as he breathes.
“He just stepped up and opened his world to me in ways I never understood I needed. Not until later.” He clears his throat like he’s swallowing down the pain of the past. “And when Ken passed, he left this place to me.”
“He loved you,” I say.
I hardly know Hawk, but I know that if he spent time here, made memories with a man who was family only by the most tenuous of threads, Hawk mattered to him.
Those tenuous threads that make a family when you don’t really have one are exactly what I have at Palm High. Yes, I have a sister and a father who love me, but we were hardly a cohesive family unit making memories.
Impulsively, I lift his hand to my lips and plant a soft kiss on his knuckles. He turns his face to look at me, and under the light of the moon, I can see the heat in his eyes. The moment his thoughts turn from the past to the present.
“Veronica…” The way he says my name has heat pooling in my belly and flooding between my legs. “Let’s go inside.”
I don’t know if there’s ever been a man I’ve wanted like this. His tattoos, his gruff side, his hard edges. But he has vulnerability and softness too. I make a snap decision as he closes and locks the kitchen door behind us.
I lunge for him. I throw every ounce of caution to the wind and pull him close.
This is not me. This is not Miss Hollifield, the woman who belongs to many students, to an institution, but who really has never felt at home in her own life.
But tonight, I feel free. With Hawk, I don’t fear judgment.
Rejection isn’t even something that crosses my mind.
When my lips meet his, all the pent-up chemistry, the electricity that’s simmered between us all night, ignites into a full-blown storm.
His lips claim mine, and even though I’ve thrown myself at him, he immediately takes charge. He grips my hips and tugs me close.
I part my lips to welcome his tongue, and I melt in the most delicious ways. The kiss is hungry. He threads his thick fingers through my hair and holds my face to his, and I feel everything and nothing all at once.
I cup his cheeks, finally close enough to stroke the thick beard between my fingers. He’s perfectly shaped, his strong jaw, full lips, and soft bristles making even my fingertips alight with need.
He tugs lightly on my hair, enough to show me that he’s powerful. But there is no threat in the intensity of the way he holds my hair in his fists. What I feel from him is what I feel for him—barely controlled want.
The entire world fades away, and I lose myself in the gravity of his pull on me. Our breaths mingle, our lips grow raw, but I don’t care.
“Come on,” he says, leading me toward the living room. He lifts his face from mine, and we look into each other’s eyes for only a second. The darkness of his pupils and the ragged catch of his breath over his swollen lips must mirror how I appear to him.
He leads me to the sectional and sits down beside me, but as soon as he sits, I pivot and stand before him.
He groans, low and needy. “Fuck…”
I straddle his legs, rubbing my core along the long, hard length of his thighs.
“Veronica,” he moans.
When I’m fully seated on his lap, my chest heaving and so flushed with arousal I feel like every inch of my skin must be glowing, he stops me.
He. Stops. Me.
He wraps his hands around my biceps, his eyes flitting longingly to my breasts. “How drunk are you?”
I stop, immediately concerned. “Buzzed,” I tell him. “But I’m clear enough to make this decision.”
I try to wiggle forward, and the room starts to spin.
It’s got to be need, lack of oxygen from kissing him.
I hardly feel the drinks we had, the pull on me toward this man is so powerful.
I lower my face to his lips, and my breasts graze his chest. Even beneath my top and a very supportive bra, my nipples are hard, aching.
God, I want to free them, stroke the tender tips along the edge of his jaw and between his lips.
The wetness between my legs grows uncomfortable, and I writhe against his lap.
“I can’t.” Hawk closes his eyes and swallows so hard, I see his throat bob. “Baby, I want you more than I fucking want to breathe, but not like this.”
I suddenly feel the chill in the air of the cabin, cold on my arms. “Wait, what do you mean?”
He cups my face in his hands and stares into my eyes. “We’ve both had more than enough to drink. Too much to make this decision. I don’t want you this way.”
“I want you,” I assure him. “I want you every way.” But even as I say the words, I hear the slur in my voice. The way my tongue tastes fuzzy, and I’m suddenly very, very tired. “I want you so badly,” I murmur, dropping my head forward to rest on his shoulder.
The last thing I say before the room goes dark is his name. “Hawk.”