Hawk (Sex and Bullets 2)

Zero for Layla.

Could never have guessed he’d call me an idiot, tell me to get out just like my dad had.

God, my dad…

Yeah, Hawk told me to get out and then fucked me raw, not even trying to get me off. Not seeming to care whether he hurt me or not. Whether he was forcing me or not.

To be fair, he wasn’t. I wanted it, wanted him, like every time. I didn’t even try to push him away, or tell him to stop.

Guess I was in shock. Guess I hoped he’d return the favor after he came.

But then he collapsed and God, he scared the bejesus out of me. I was so worried. So worried because this isn’t like him—but I was wrong to think I knew him.

So wrong.

I straighten my borrowed clothes. What a joke, that I was concerned about him, that I swapped personalities with Dorothy to sneak in here, meaning to help him when he obviously is right where he wants to be and has everything under control.

Well, fine, then.

He’s still sitting on the floor, long hair hiding his face, his gray pants dusty and splattered with blood. What need does a millionaire have for more power? A young, handsome millionaire with his whole future in front of him?

Jesus. Some people are blind to what is right in front of them. He’s throwing his frigging life away for this crap.

And it feels good to be mad. It takes my mind away from other stuff.

Like Dad.

How could he? How could he get involved in this filth? Talk about being blind to what you have. About throwing it all away, and for what?

Okay, breathe in, Layla. Breathe in, breathe out, and walk away. That’s what Hawk wants. And that’s what you should do.

Maybe I should finally take the leap and move to New York, with Mom. At least she’s not involved in illegal crap, as far as I know.

He’s watching me. I can tell without even looking. I can feel his eyes on me, a hot touch.

I grab my purse and push hair out of my eyes. I feel hot tears in the back of my throat, but I tell myself it’s the anger, and the shock.

What a day.

I open my mouth for the parting shot—and it needs to be something memorable and suitably dramatic, like, “Fuck you, douchebag,” or even, “Eat shit and die, asshole.”

But I’m at a loss for words. The best comebacks are never there when you need them. I’ll probably have a better line tomorrow, when it’ll be too frigging late to deliver it to this dickbag.

But noise from behind me stops the words on my tongue.

The door. The door is opening.

With a heartfelt curse, I sprint toward my hiding place behind the stacks of crates and huddle down as the door swings open.

***

“Your Boss said he’d come back tomorrow, so what the fuck d’you want?” Hawk drawls, pulling himself to a kneeling position. He glares at the goons approaching him through his hair but doesn’t move.

Why doesn’t he stand up?

“Miss me, cocksucker?” The massive one of the two thugs crouches down to Hawk’s level and grins. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you. I knew you’d be sad without me.”

“You should learn to control your urges,” Hawk mutters.