6. HAWK #2
CJ exhales slowly, fingers tapping against the wood. “Marcy Hollingbow.”
I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the damn ache still lingering there. “What about her?”
CJ glares. “Don’t play dumb, Hawk. She was in our bar. On your…”
He trails off, glaring at me. Ryder looks between us. He knows something happened between me and Marcy, but he doesn’t know we almost had sex. And I’m not about to tell him. He’s the one who found her. He won’t be happy if he finds out.
“That girl being anywhere near us puts us in danger,” CJ continues. “Puts you in danger. Don’t forget what her father did to us.”
The words land hard.
I don’t need the reminder.
I can’t forget.
The pulse in my shoulder flares again, the phantom pain making my fingers twitch.
“How could I?” I mutter, rubbing at the old wound like it’ll do a damn thing.
CJ nods once like he knows exactly what I mean, then leans forward. “She’s not our problem, Hawk. You need to let her go.”
I hold his stare, but I don’t answer.
Because we both know that’s not happening.
I push back from the table and head for the door, already done with this conversation.
Before I make it out, Ryder grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. “You reach out to her yet?” he asks, voice quiet but firm.
I don’t bother lying. “Yeah.”
His jaw ticks, but he nods. “Good.”
Then, without another word, he walks off.
I stand there for a second, watching him go, that single word “Good” rattling around in my head.
Something about Ryder’s tone makes my instincts twitch. Makes me want to press, to dig deeper.
But I don’t.
I push through the back doors of The Den, stepping into the cool late-afternoon air. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement of the parking lot.
The lot is half-full, a mix of club bikes and the usual assortment of pickup trucks and muscle cars.
A couple of prospects are leaning against a truck, smoking, one of them half-heartedly wiping down a bike that belongs to an officer.
Across the lot, a group of regulars loiters near the entrance, laughing, already a few drinks deep even though the night hasn’t officially started yet.
I swing my leg over my Harley, grip the handlebars, and fire her up with a deep, throaty roar. The vibration runs through my bones, making the inside of my body hum.
A couple of the prospects glance over, nodding in respect. One of the club girls near the entrance watches me a little too long, lips curling into something suggestive. I don’t bother acknowledging it.
I’ve got other things on my mind.
I pull out of the lot, the back tire kicking up a bit of gravel as I merge onto the main road, heading into town.
Riding is different than driving. It’s not just about getting from point A to B—it’s feeling every inch of the road beneath you, the wind pressing against your chest, the hum of the engine a second heartbeat. It’s freedom in a way most people don’t understand.
As I weave through traffic, I notice the usual reactions.
Some people stare. Some with curiosity, some with thinly veiled judgment.
Others pull out their phones, snapping pictures or recording as I roll by.
It’s the same shit every time—bikers, especially bikers who look like me, tattooed and big—make people nervous.
At a stoplight, I catch a glimpse of a couple sitting in a sleek black sedan next to me.
The guy grips the wheel tighter, eyes forward, pretending not to look.
The girl, though—she is looking. Her lips part slightly, gaze tracing over the tattoos peeking from under my cut, the grip I have on the handlebars, the way the bike rumbles beneath me.
I smirk under my breath, used to it by now.
The light turns green, and I throttle forward, leaving them behind as I carve through the streets.
The town is a blend of old and new, like so many places in California.
The downtown area is a mix of modern glass storefronts and weathered brick buildings, small businesses wedged between corporate chains.
Street vendors push carts along the sidewalks, the smell of grilled meat and spices filling the air as pedestrians weave around them.
I pass a group of teenagers hanging outside a tattoo parlor, their eyes lighting up when they see the bike. One of them points at me, nudging his friend. Another one lifts his phone, snapping a picture.
Further down, near the city square, I slow slightly as I pass a newsstand.
And there it is, front and center.
A newspaper headline with Jake Hollingbow’s face plastered across it.
I clench my jaw, gripping the handlebars a little tighter.
Fucking perfect.
The road winds up along the coastline, and the air gets cooler as I climb higher toward the lookout point. The sun is dipping lower now, streaking the sky with deep oranges and purples. It’s the kind of view that makes people pull over just to sit and watch.
I spot her the second I crest the last curve.
Marcy.
She’s sitting on the sand, just past where the pavement ends and the land slopes down toward the beach. Her shoes are off, toes digging into the damp earth, hair shifting slightly in the breeze.
I slow the bike, cutting the engine as I pull off onto the gravel shoulder. The silence is instant, the sudden lack of vibration settling into my bones as I swing off the Harley.
I toe off my boots, leaving them next to the bike before making my way down toward her.
She doesn’t hear me at first. She’s staring out at the waves, arms wrapped around herself, lost somewhere far away.
I’m about to say something—some smartass remark about how she’s gonna freeze her ass off out here when the wind picks up?—
But then I see it.
Her shoulders shake. Her head drops slightly.
And even in the dimming light, I can see the shimmer of tears running down her face.
I don’t think. I don’t question. I just move.
I sit down beside her, close but not pushing, giving her the space to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Her breath hitches, and before she can try to wipe her tears away, to pretend she’s fine, I pull her in. Her body is warm against mine, soft in a way that shouldn’t feel like fucking home, but it does.
She doesn’t speak. She just lets me hold her.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to say anything, either.