13. MARCY #2
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, startled by what I see. My cheeks are flushed, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright. I’m glowing. There’s no other word for it.
And I know why.
It’s them. Hawk, Ryder… even CJ.
I like them.
All three.
Is that weird?
Maybe.
But staring at myself—flushed, glowing—I can’t bring myself to care.
I take one last deep breath and step out of the stall, smoothing my hands down my jeans, trying to shove the mess of emotions back down where it belongs. I don’t even make it three steps before I freeze.
They’re there.
The same group of women from the back table, blocking the exit, arms crossed, faces twisted in that same look every mean girl in every rich, private school I ever attended perfected.
I blink, thrown off. “Uh?—”
One of them, the brunette who’s been glaring at me all night, steps forward first. “Does your father know?” she sneers. “Know that you’re sleeping with the same men he’s trying to bring down?”
I stare, confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” another woman snaps. “You really think we don’t know? Since you showed up, the raids have doubled. Cops breathing down our necks, CJ bleeding money, the club looking over their shoulders every minute.”
I swallow hard, heart thudding. Raids? CJ never told me. Neither did Hawk, nor Ryder. No one.
Another woman laughs, bitter and cold. “Yeah, sweetheart. And you—you waltz in here with your rich-girl attitude, flashing that sweet face and big tits like you’re one of us.”
“I—”
“You think you’re special?” the brunette hisses. “You come up here and stink up this place like you belong. Like you’re not a fucking Hollingbow.” She spits the name like it burns. “Your daddy is harassing our husbands, and here you’re playing house.”
“Did your daddy send you?” another one snaps. “Is that how this works? I don’t know what kind of twisted Hollingbow game this is, but you’ve got to end it.”
“I—”
“Oh, save it.” Another steps forward, getting right in my face. “A princess like you should know her place. And it’s not here.”
I blink fast, trying not to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
“You don’t belong here,” the blonde sneers. “And you’re gonna get us all killed, you stupid girl.”
I suck in a shaky breath, trying to find my voice, my spine—anything.
“I’ve worked my ass off here,” I finally whisper, hating how thin my voice sounds. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t know what my father was doing.”
They scoff in unison.
“She must think she’s so fucking special,” the brunette says to the other women, then turns back to me. “But you’re just a spoiled bitch who doesn’t know when to leave.”
I blink fast, swallowing hard. I want to cry, scream—something—but all I can do is stand there, frozen, letting their insults hit me from all sides.
“You’re a liability. A princess. You stink up this place every time you walk in.”
“Go back to Daddy, little girl. You don’t belong here. And you never fucking will.”
I can’t breathe. Their words keep echoing in my head. “Spoiled princess,” “Sleeping through the club,” “Your daddy sent you,” “You’re going to get us all killed.”
I push through the crowded clubhouse, blinking back tears, trying not to break. But the shame sits heavy in my chest, clawing up my throat.
I just need to get out—away from their stares, their sneers. Away from them.
I’m almost to the door when a hand wraps around my wrist, stopping me cold.
“Marcy?”
Hawk.
I try to yank free, but his grip holds firm, gentle but unrelenting.
“Hey, hey…” he says soothingly. “What’s going on?”
I shake my head, biting down on the sob threatening to spill. “Let me go, Hawk.”
“The hell I will,” he mutters, tugging me toward him. “You’re crying. What happened?”
I swallow hard, but I can’t speak. Can’t even look at him.
“Come on,” Hawk says quietly, his hand sliding down to mine. “Come with me.”
Before I can protest, he’s leading me through a side hallway, past the noise and laughter. He doesn’t stop until we’re at the back stairwell. I follow numbly, too drained to argue, until we reach the rooftop door. He pushes it open, guiding me out onto the terrace.
I blink, stunned. “What… what is this?”
The cold air bites at my skin, but I barely notice. The rooftop’s been decorated—soft string lights hang along the edge, a table with flickering candles, a couple of blankets thrown over chairs. It’s simple, but it feels… intimate.
“For you,” Hawk says, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly looking nervous. “I… uh… I wanted to do something. For tonight. For everything you’ve done.”
I stare at him, lips parted, throat tight.
“I figured you’ve been holding this whole thing together,” he shrugs, glancing away. “And no one’s really said thank you.”
The tears fall then, silent and hot down my cheeks. I try to turn away, but Hawk is there, pulling me in, his arms wrapping around me tight.
“Marcy,” he murmurs, resting his chin on my head. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, burying my face in his chest, breathing him in—leather, whiskey, and something that’s just him.
I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll fall apart all over again. But I gather my courage. “Thanksgiving is over. I guess my job is as well.”
He frowns. “Who said that? CJ? But I swear he?—”
I shake my head. “No, not CJ.” Sleeping with CJ that night seemed like a fluke, but I’ve seen the way he has softened towards me. It’s not all a pretense.
Instead, I lift my head, and before I can think twice, I press my lips to his.
Hawk freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. But then he’s kissing me back, hard, hungry, like he’s been holding it in for weeks. His hands slide up my back, into my hair, his mouth claiming mine until my knees feel weak.
I moan softly against him, clinging to his cut like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. He growls low in his throat and backs me up toward the blankets laid out on the rooftop.
“Marcy…” he whispers against my lips.
The backs of my legs hit the blanket, and Hawk lowers me down with surprising care, covering us both from the wind. The chill of the night air is everywhere, but his body—his hands—are fire.
I fumble at his cut first, then tug at his shirt underneath, needing him bare, needing to feel skin against skin. Hawk peels it off in one swift motion, his broad chest shivering once against the cold before he focuses on me.