Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

And they’d been standing there for over half an hour.

Evie was home, with his buds Boone and Axl, the bottle of Fireball and zero knowledge this was what he was doing.

When he’d received word that Hawk had arranged the meet, he’d called Boone to ask him to come keep an eye on Evie while he was at the jail.

And, of course, Boone had brought Axl so they both could get a good look at her, assess her suitability for Mag, as well as take her back while Mag was away.

Regardless of the fact that Boone and Axl were Hawk’s boys, both were built, and it was unmistakable they could handle themselves, it took Evan visible effort to allow him to walk out the door to see to some vague “business.”

She was still freaked.

It was natural.

But it served to piss him off even more.

He did not like leaving her.

He did not like keeping his whereabouts from her.

He needed to get this done, find out what was happening, form a plan, go home to her and share where he’d been and what was going on.

And all that started with, at some point, clapping eyes on Evan’s brother.

“As much as I appreciate you sorted this meet for me, Hawk, I got a woman at home who started this fucked-up shit with me at her side and didn’t like me leavin’ her tonight when it got ugly,” he growled at Hawk, who cut his eyes to Mag. “If this is not gonna happen, I gotta get back to her.”

“Let Slim do his thing,” Hawk replied.

Mag opened his mouth right when the door opened, and Brock “Slim” Lucas stood in it.

Brock looked to Hawk, to Mag and back to Hawk before he proved he was adept at reading people when he said, “I better not regret this.”

“He’s my man, Slim,” was all Hawk said as reply.

Four words from Hawk served two purposes.

The first, Brock nodded, jerked his head to the hall to indicate they should follow him and moved out of the door.

And the second, Mag was reminded that his behavior reflected on Hawk, so he had to keep his shit tight.

Mag glanced at Mo, whose eyes were locked to Mag, his expression blank, but as usual with Mo, his bud found alternate ways to communicate.

And the stiff line of his humongous frame, the tension in his neck, veins popping there, shared how he felt about one of his woman’s friends being in a situation.

Mo wouldn’t be anywhere else, not with someone Lottie cared about finding trouble, not with Mag in the mix, and Mag was glad he was there for those purposes.

But more, even as tall and built as Mag was—six four and clearly someone you’d think twice about messing with, Hawk a couple inches shorter, but having that same look—Mo was gargantuan, and one look at him would put the fear of God into anyone with half a brain.

The jury was out as to if Mick Gardiner had half a brain.

They’d soon see.

They walked down a hall, into a secure area and Brock led them into a small room with a table and four chairs. Three on one side. One on the other.

Chained to that table was a man who Mag knew would be relatively tall when he stood, maybe six foot, a little over.

He was also undeniably Evan’s brother.

Her same straight, reddish-brown hair.

Her brown eyes.

Her slender frame.

There were obvious differences outside gender.

Evie’s hair was long, falling in thick sheets over her shoulders.

She was also all kinds of pretty and this guy was not all that good-looking.

And her brother had an olive cast to his skin, whereas Evie’s was flawless porcelain.

Last, this guy was straight-up skinny, and although Evan was slender and had smallish tits, she had a generous ass.

Before he’d seen her that had not been Mag’s thing. He was a legs man (something she totally had) and a close second on that was tits.

He was not an ass man.

Now, conjuring up the image of her in the face of her brother, he wondered what he’d been thinking all these years, because with Evie, he was all about her ass.

Mick Gardiner got a load of what was entering that room where he was about to have a late evening chat, and after Mo strolled through, he hid his alarm behind douchebaggery.

“What? Has the government picked me to be disappeared in order to force me to perform covert military operations?” Mick asked, presumably referring to the uniform Hawk did not require that they all had adopted of cargo pants, military boots and tee, or in Mo’s case, a compression shirt that left little to the imagination of how much he could bench press.

“Uncle Sam wouldn’t take you,” Hawk replied as he moved behind the chairs and jerked his chin up at Mag, his way of saying, I’m already done with this guy, sit down and get on with it.