Sinful Rewards 4 Read online

  My mom does exactly that, her lips moving as she gathers the dirty dishes. The customer nods and pulls her wallet out of her no-name vinyl purse.

  “How did you know she’d do that?” I ask.

  “I look for threats. You look for fashions.” He splays his fingers over me, his grip thrillingly secure. “Your mom looks for needs her customers might have.”

  “Everyone sees what they want to see,” I conclude.

  “The average person sees very little.” Hawke pushes me toward the counter. “Very few of us pay attention.”

  Very few of us. He says this as though we’re a team, as though we have special skills others don’t have. Local residents call to me as I pass them. I greet them by name, noting the new faces around me, not stopping long enough for anyone to ask about me, about Hawke, to make any snide comments, to hurt me. My tattooed biker follows me closely, a giant wall safeguarding my rear.

  Karl pops his head out of the kitchen. Sweat drips down his flushed cheeks. His puffy chef’s hat is slightly askew and he’s missing a button from his white grease-stained jacket, his attempt at appearing like a top-notch chef falling short. “Morning, Bee.” He waves his spatula.

  “Morning, Karl.” I toss my backpack onto a shelf underneath the counter. Much of my childhood was spent curled under that shelf. I’d color and complete homework as I waited for my mom’s shifts to end. “This is Hawke.” I don my ugly checkered apron, tying the strings around my torso. “Hawke, Karl makes the best pasta this side of Chicago.”

  “This side of the Atlantic,” the chef corrects. “Perhaps in the world. I’m an undiscovered treasure, a virtuoso in the kitchen, a god of the culinary arts.” He kisses his hairy fingers, treating us to his best Italian accent.

  I laugh as the exuberant chef returns to his domain, his voice raised in song. “Karl’s also very modest.”

  Hawke places the helmet beside my backpack. “And you love that about him.” He drifts his fingertips over the initials I’d etched into the metal shelf years ago.

  “Yep.” I grin. I love Karl. He never judges me and he’s always kind to my mom. When I was younger, I’d fantasize he was my dad. “I have to take orders.” I tuck an order pad and pen into my apron’s front pocket. “There’s a break room in the back if you want to wait there.”

  Hawke grabs a shallow gray tub. “I’ll clear tables.”

  I place my hand on his bare arm. A bolt of energy surges between us, an awareness that I feel only when I’m with him. “You don’t have to work.”

  “Neither do you.” Hawke dips his head, brushes his lips across my forehead, leaving a tantalizing trail of desire. “I’m helping you for the same reason you’re helping your mom.” He strides toward an empty table.

  He can’t be helping me for the same reason. I study his broad shoulders as he gathers the dirty dishes. I’m helping my mom because I love her.

  I don’t have time to ponder his reply. Chair legs scrape against the floor as the members of the century club, a Saturday tradition, seat themselves. The table has already been prepared for them, place mats, silverware, and artificial sweeteners set on the metal surface. The elderly women, clad in floral print dresses and sneakers, claim their usual seats, barricading themselves behind a fortress of walkers and power chairs.

  I tuck menus under my arm. The women always order the same things, yet they insist on perusing the never-changing offerings. I grab a variety of tea bags and a pot of hot water and approach the gray-haired contingent.

  Dolly, the youngest member, smiles, displaying a blindingly white set of dentures. “Bee, come here,” she beckons. I hurry to her side, distributing the menus as I move around the table. “Who’s the hunk?” she asks at an earsplitting volume, waving her wrinkled hands at Hawke.

  “He’s a luscious slice of beefcake,” Myrtle adds, adjusting her reading glasses. “If he’s on the menu, I’ll take two.”

  The women titter.

  “The luscious slice of beefcake is Hawke.” Smothering my laughter, I pour hot water into cups and set tea bags on the saucers. “I’m afraid we have only one of him.”

  “One of me is all that you need, love,” Hawke adds as he passes us, his tub filled with dishes. He brushes one of his palms over my lower back and I tremble.

  “Love?” the elderly ladies repeat. A round of laughter follows.

  “Learn from your mom’s mistakes, girl,” Dolly advises, dipping her tea bag into the hot water. “Get a ring on your finger before you spread your legs.”

  “No one buys the cow if they get the milk for free,” Myrtle chimes in.

  “And make sure he wraps his willy,” Geraldine, the eldest member, yells at the top of her still-healthy lungs, her mortifying advice causing heads to turn.

  Oh my God. My face heats. Kill me now.

  HOURS LATER, THE lunch rush has eased and only a couple of stragglers are seated at the tables. Half of the townspeople have dropped by, not so casually gawking at Hawke, giving me unneeded sex advice, the concern being that I will end up pregnant and alone as my mom did.

  Hawke is the only reason I haven’t lost my mind. Whenever I thought I would snap and say something that would only make matters worse, I’d feel his hand on my back and his presence behind me, his voice rumbling in my ear.

  I glance across the room. Hawke carries a tray of orders to one of my mom’s tables, his biceps flexing under the weight of the food. My former marine’s gait is smooth and his expression is relaxed, as though waiting tables is the most natural thing in the world for him.

  This scares the shit out of me. I can’t get involved with a busboy. I simply can’t. The diner is part of my past. It’s not my future. My destiny is to be the customer seated at the table, the woman served, not the woman serving. I refuse to spend my life worrying about paying the rent on some crappy apartment or affording groceries. I won’t live my mom’s life. I want more.

  The door opens and Tara, my high school nemesis, strolls into the space, the heels of her ankle-strap Manolo Blahnik sandals clicking on the floor. The hem of her white Akris belted dress reaches mid-thigh, her legs tanned and bare and perfect. Her blonde curls frame her beautiful face.

  Tara’s life is what I want. She has a handsome, devoted husband and more money than anyone our age should have. The woman can afford the fashions I love, lives in a huge house no one will ever evict her from, doesn’t have to fret about anything.

  Because she’s worthy. She’s the good girl I should be. Tara’s parents were wed before she was born. She’s been linked sexually to only one man—her husband. I doubt she strips in front of windows, wishing to be watched, or allows tattooed bikers to finger-fuck her. Not a smidgeon of gossip is attached to Tara’s name.

  She lowers gracefully into a corner booth, removes her Gucci sunglasses, and waits, gazing straight ahead, expecting me to serve her. I glance at my mom. She’s busy. Lines etch between her eyebrows as she takes the bridge club members’ extremely complicated and painfully precise meal orders.

  Ugh. Tara would have to be my customer. I seize the coffee carafe, straighten my shoulders, and march toward her, resigned to an hour or more of petty requests and snide remarks.

  I pour the hot liquid into the white ceramic cup. “The coffee is fresh.” I address this common complaint before she can voice it.

  “The rim of the cup is chipped.” Tara wrinkles her perfect nose.

  I glare at her, tempted to bust the cup over her head.

  “My apologies, ma’am.” Hawke once more saves me from myself, bumping against my side, his touch distracting me. Our gazes meet. His pale blue eyes sparkle with humor. “I’ll get you a new cup.” He removes the offending container, walking away as soundlessly as he approached.

  “How appropriate,” Tara purrs. “Your new boyfriend is a busboy.”

  “He works in the intelligence field.” I repeat what Hawke told Mrs. Davis.

  “He’s a security guard.” Tara’s eyes glitter. “Is that better or worse, I won
der?” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Either way, you’ll be poor.”

  I grit my teeth. “What would you like to order?” I ask, not bothering to show her the menu. Tara’s orders are always customized.

  “He’ll leave you as your dad left your mom.” She isn’t ready to order. She hasn’t finished tormenting me yet. “Look at you.” She scans my casually dressed body, and her lips curl. “Why would he stay?”

  “Why do you care?” I mutter, drawing a frowny face on my order pad.

  “You’ll end up pregnant and broke and alone.” Tara expresses my worst fear.

  I add devil horns to the frowny face. “Should I give you some time to decide what to order?” Or should I jam my pen up your uptight ass?

  “Your tip will reflect your attitude,” my nemesis informs me.

  She can keep her measly two dollars. “I understand from the chef that the macaroni and cheese is especially good today.” I maintain a blank expression.

  “You know I’m lactose intolerant,” Tara snips.

  I say nothing because I do know that.

  “Your belt is too wide.” She returns her attention to my outfit. “If you insist on wearing ghastly knockoffs, at least buy them in the latest styles.” Her gaze moves to Hawke. “My husband wears only bespoke, his suits handcrafted in London.”

  My tattooed biker wears plain black T-shirts and faded blue jeans, his sense of fashion deplorable. “This is your last chance to order,” I tell her.

  Tara casts a hard glance my way. “I’ll have a salad, arugula, spinach, and baby greens only—no iceberg lettuce—grape tomatoes, not sliced, topped with slivered almonds, and a sprinkle of shredded carrots,” she recites.

  I write her order down, dreading Karl’s reaction. The chef considers his salads to be a work of art, not to be tampered with.

  “Bring me the honey balsamic dressing on the side,” Tara finishes. “You have a heavy hand.” Her gaze lowers to my hips. “And some of us care about our figures.”

  The bitch. “I’ll see to your order, ma’am.” I pivot on my sneaker-clad heels and move as fast as I can away from her.

  Hawke lingers by the counter, watching me. I replace the carafe of coffee and smack the ticket in front of Karl. “She’s back.”

  “Aargh.” The temperamental chef throws his hands in the air. “The devil woman comes here only when you’re working.” He releases a string of profanities that would make Hawke’s friend Dawg blush.

  Hawke chuckles. “I now know where your vocabulary comes from.”

  I roll my eyes, unable to refute his assumption, as Karl is responsible for my cussing. I spent too much of my childhood at the diner, listening to him rant and rave about customers. It took years to purge the naughty words from my vocabulary.

  “Tara would test the patience of a saint.” I look over my shoulder. The woman examines her perfectly polished nails. “I don’t know why she’s such a. . .” I hesitate. Hawke has heard me cuss, heard Karl say worse. “Bitch. She has everything, a rich husband, a big house, designer fashions.”

  “Yet she eats alone.” Hawke retrieves a clean cup. “And she hasn’t checked her phone once.” He clasps the coffee carafe and walks toward Tara.

  Hawke’s right. I watch him as he serves my high school tormentor. She always eats alone, and I’ve never seen her look at her phone.

  Tara flicks her fingers dismissively at Hawke, and he saunters back to the counter. “She doesn’t want to be served by the busboy.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “And she requires a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Shit.

  Chapter Three

  TARA FINALLY LEAVES at four o’clock, after rejecting her salad three times and sending back sliced strawberries my roommate, Cyndi, would have devoured. My nemesis informed me of her husband’s business brilliance, bragged about the weekend she spent shopping in Paris, lamented the ugliness of the sneakers I’m wearing, and predicted I’d soon be working at the diner full-time.

  In the past, I would have told her I had a job. But that’s no longer true. My shoulders slump.

  “I’m sorry, honeybee.” My mom bumps against me. “I know you wanted to celebrate.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do it next time.”

  I’ve heard that promise before. There’s never a next time. “There’s nothing to—”

  “When is your shift ending, Miss Carter?” Hawke asks, stopping me before I tell my mom there’s nothing to celebrate because I didn’t get the job. He links his fingers with mine.

  “Xandra should be starting her shift soon.” My mom’s smile is edged with exhaustion. “I’ll wait for her. You two go, spend the rest of the day together.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze flicking from me to Hawke. “Honeybee, ummm. . .”

  My mom needs the money for her rent. “Hawke, wasn’t there something you had to do before we left?” I look pointedly at him.

  His eyes flare with understanding. “That’s right. I have to talk to Karl.” He squeezes my fingers. “He mentioned putting together some food for us.” He strides toward the kitchen, his shoulders broad and his tread light.

  It wasn’t food for us. I chew on the inside of my cheek. The lasagna was promised to Nicolas.

  “He seems like a nice young man,” my mom comments. “He’s certainly a hard worker.”

  That’s my mom’s solution to everything—work hard. She doesn’t realize it isn’t enough. “He rides a motorcycle.” I retrieve my backpack and extract the check from the canvas bag. “You don’t have to take extra shifts, Mom.” I remove my apron, fish the tips out of the front pocket. She gets that money also. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “I have to work while I can.” My mom leans against the counter, her body too damn frail for my liking. “The niece is returning to town. She ran up big gambling debts again.” The last time the owner’s niece returned to Happydale, my mom’s hours were slashed to almost nothing.

  “She’ll leave as soon as the debts are paid.” I force my smile, the worry on my mom’s face angering me. “We’ll manage. Carter women always do.” We don’t prosper, but we survive. “You need a vacation. You haven’t had one of those in. . .” I search my memory. “Ever.”

  “I’m not an expert on vacations, but I understand they’re supposed to be a time to relax.” My mom’s laugh sounds semihysterical. “How am I supposed to relax? If I lose this apartment—”

  “You won’t lose the apartment.” I wrap my arm around my mom’s waist and she leans on me, the two of us supporting each other. The hopelessness of our situation threatens to overwhelm me. If I had two minimum-wage-paying jobs, I couldn’t cover our combined bills.

  And currently, I don’t have even one job.

  “Can I get more coffee?” A truck driver holds up his mug, yet another mother-daughter moment ruined by a damn customer.

  I glare at him and he sets the mug down on the countertop, ceramic ringing against metal. “This should get you through the next two weeks.” I push the check and tip money into my mom’s hand.

  She takes the funds, looking a bit embarrassed. “Thank you, Bee.” My mom gives me a quick hug and grabs the carafe of coffee.

  She serves the burly man, a smile on her face, acting as though nothing is wrong, as though she isn’t exhausted, isn’t financially falling apart. Hawke is right. My mom is a strong lady.

  “Are you ready, love?” My tattooed biker looms at the end of the counter, carrying a plastic bag in one of his massive hands. His pale blue eyes are soft with concern. How long has he been standing there and how much did he see?

  “I’m ready. Let me put that in the backpack.” I hold out my hand.

  Our fingers brush together and my breath catches, my nipples tightening. When Hawke touches me, my problems disappear. There’s nothing except him, his rough hands, seductive heat, delicious scent, low voice. My lips part.

  Hawke’s eyes darken to a brilliant blue. “I’m not kissing you in front of your mom, Belinda. That
’s disrespectful.”

  And he’d never disrespect my mom, the wild woman of Happydale. My chest heats. “I wasn’t asking for a kiss,” I lie, cramming the bagged food into my backpack.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” Hawke helps me don my backpack, adjusting the straps, tracing along them with his fingertips, setting off fires within my body.

  “Stop that.” I slap his hands away from me.

  “I’ll stop. . .for now.” He chuckles, the deep sound exciting me even more. He grabs the helmet from the shelf under the counter, hooks an arm through the strap. “Let’s go.” He places a big palm on my lower spine, under the backpack, and pushes me forward.

  We move through the dining area. I say good-bye to the regular customers, wave to my mom, step outside, achingly aware of the man following me. The sun is shining. I tilt my head back and gaze up at the sky.

  “She can still see us.” Hawke hooks one of his massive arms around my waist and pulls me into the alleyway between the diner and the neighboring hardware store.

  “Better.” He crushes my body against his, covering my lips. I eagerly open to him and he surges inside me, our tongues sliding, twisting, twining. He tastes of spices and man, with a hint of forever.

  I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. Balancing on the tips of my sneaker-covered toes, I grip Hawke’s shoulders, striving to be closer. We’re kissing in an alleyway along the busiest street in my hometown. Anyone could walk by, see us.

  I don’t care. I suck on Hawke’s tongue, clutch his muscles, hold on to him with all of the strength in my smaller form. His fingers splay over my hips. The ridge in his jeans presses against me. His chest flattens my breasts.

  It’s not enough. I need to feel his skin against mine. I tug on his shirt.

  He catches my wrists and meets my gaze. His eyes are wild, his face is flushed, and his chest heaves. “It’s time to leave, sweetheart.”

  I blink. “But—”

  “Now,” he orders, releasing me.