Hawk (Sex and Bullets 2)

The coast looks clear.

If only my knees didn’t feel weak and bile didn’t still coat my throat. Flashes of the man’s bloodied face, the splash of red on Hawk’s shirt return to haunt my mind, and I swallow hard.

Dorothy’s car is just outside, but the key is my purse, and that’s in the possession of our captors.

This time Hawk is the one tugging on my hand. Then he lets go, and his arm goes around my waist, anchoring me. Sliding along the wall, we make our way toward the gate of the warehouse yard, stumbling on shaky legs.

I point at the side gate, and we hurry toward it. We just need to hit the main avenue to get a cab or an Uber. I hope they stop for us. We must look like nightmarish ghosts, pale, filthy, without jackets, shivering with cold, barely staying upright. Hawk covered in blood, his fair hair and beard turned into dirty brown. My own long hair tangled over my shoulders, stinking of vomit.

Gah. Stop thinking about vomit.

My stomach gurgles, and I swallow hard. I’m not used to going for so long without food. I want a burger, juicy and covered in melted cheese, and fries, and mayo.

My mouth watering, I follow Hawk onto the street. We sidle into the shadows of a narrow alley, and why am I thinking of food when we could get captured any moment?

Looks like I’m not cut out for suspenseful adventures. Never thought I was anyway. The most action I’d seen in the past year was the trip to New York to visit Mom, and that was mostly shopping and having coffee in chic cafés.

It feels like light years ago, not just a few days.

“All right?” Hawk rasps, and I nod, clinging to his hand. It feels strong and hard and capable, wrapped around mine, and his tall, muscular frame calms the roiling in my stomach a little. I need his strength, and it’s difficult to reconcile it with the memory of him tied to that pillar in the basement, helpless and beaten.

But we’re out of there now. He’s fine. We’re fine.

I grip his hand more tightly, and he squeezes back, reassuring. I keep an ear out for sounds of pursuit—never thought I’d ever use that phrase in real life—since Hawk can’t hear so well. He’s the eyes. I’m the ears.

Plus, he’s hunched over, clearly favoring bruised ribs, and limps a little, and I’m spaced out and my stomach is unhappy with me.

We’re a hot mess.

When we stagger like drunkards out into the first main street, I don’t expect to find a cab rolling down toward us, and when Hawk lifts his hand, I don’t expect it to stop.

After the past few days, I’m suspicious of anything that seems to be going our way.

But the cab is there, coming to a halt in front of us, and like in a dream, I let Hawk drag me closer. He opens the door and helps me inside, then slides in beside me, his thigh warm against mine.

“To the police station,” he says, “and I need to use your phone. This is urgent.” A beat passes. The cabbie stares at us through the rearview mirror, as if suddenly noticing our appearance.

“My phone? I dunno, man…”

“Look, I’m Jamie Hawk Fleming. We were robbed. You’ll get a huge tip for helping us out.”

Hawk holds the cabbie’s gaze until the man nods. “Fine. You do look familiar.” He swipes his cell phone from its holder by the steering wheel and passes it to Hawk. “You’d better be telling the truth.”

“I am,” Hawk mutters, taking the phone and punching in a number. “I fucking swear it. Christ.”

I put a hand on his arm, and he glances my way, his gray eyes stormy. “We’re out of there.”

His jaw clenches. “Yeah.” Then he brings the cell to his ear, gripping it so tightly I swear I hear the casing creak. “Hello? Storm, that you, asshole? Yeah, I’m still alive. Yeah, okay—no, listen. Need you to meet us at the police station. I got some info, and there are guys after us, probably. And we need…” He rubs his forehead, and I want to do it for him, erase the headache born of all this stress and abuse. “We need money. And someplace safe to go afterward. Can you—? All right. Fucking awesome, man.”

He throws the cell phone on the seat beside him and leans back his head, closing his eyes.

“All good?” I ask, suddenly unsure of what I’m doing here with him. I’ve never even met his friends, but I know Storm must be Troy ‘Storm’ Jordan, of Jordan Enterprises, Developers and Investors.

I forget sometimes just who Hawk really is.

“I’m as good as can be, Doll,” he mutters, squeezing my hand again, making me feel more at ease. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

***