Sinful Rewards 4 Page 5

  Hawke picks up the helmet and places it on my head. “And I wasn’t in your plan.” He fastens the straps. I say nothing because he wasn’t in my plans. “Plans change, love, often for the better.”

  “That hasn’t been my experience.” I lower my gaze to the tiny white scar on his square chin. My mom’s plans always changed for the worst until eventually she gave up making plans, concentrating on surviving through the day. “My plans changed on Friday, and now I don’t have a job.”

  “We’ll find you another job.” Hawke cups my chin, forcing me to look at him. His pale blue eyes gleam with intent, the confidence in his rugged countenance reassuring me. He’ll help me find another job.

  Another minimum-wage-paying job. My lips twist. That won’t solve anything. It won’t cover the bills, won’t stop the dream-crushing cycle of poverty. “I have to stick to my plan.” I search his face, willing him to understand. “My plan will work.” It has to.

  “You don’t need your original plan.” Hawke stares at me and I stare back, the two of us locked in a silent battle I’m determined to win. Moments pass. Neither of us relents. A drop of perspiration trickles down my spine.

  A bird screeches and we both look upward. A hawk circles in the sky above us, its wings spread wide.

  “I bet he has a plan,” I mutter.

  “I bet he does.” Hawke chuckles. “He’s watching us.” He pulls on the ball chain hanging around my neck and closes his scarred fingers over the dog tags. “Rock came up with the nickname. He claims. . .” A breath-sucking pain flashes in his eyes. “He claimed he’d never seen another kid watch his surroundings like I did, so I must be a hawk.”

  “You pay attention.” I cover his hands with mine.

  We hold the dog tags, standing too close. I should step away from him, stick to my plan. Hawke’s not the man I need. He can’t change the poverty and loss-filled fate others believe I’ll experience.

  “Teach me how to read people,” I demand. If I can read other people, maybe I can prevent the pain they cause, maybe I can protect myself.

  “The first step to reading people is noticing as much as possible.” Hawke lifts me onto his pretty bike. “That means noticing everything, not merely the fashions they wear.”

  “I notice more than fashion,” I lie.

  “Don’t ever play poker, love.” He rubs his right thumb over the lines etched between my eyebrows. “You’d lose your shirt.”

  “I don’t gamble.” I frown. “You were teaching me about reading people.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hawke’s lips twitch. “Look for the exceptions, the things that don’t seem right.” His fingertips drift along my cheeks, over my shoulders, and I quiver.

  “You might not be able to verbalize these outliers,” he continues, “but you’ll feel them. Here.” He covers my breasts with his huge palms, and my body tightens, his touch reviving a passion I thought had been sated.

  Hawke’s eyes gleam. He knows what he’s doing to me.

  “In time, you’ll see patterns.” He rubs his thumbs over my cotton-covered nipples, round and round, tormenting the sensitive flesh, and my breathing grows ragged.

  “You’ll know when they’re lying.” He leans forward and grazes his lips over mine.

  “When they’re keeping secrets.” He kisses me again, harder, deeper, our tongues dancing. I hold on to his shoulders, wanting him again, always.

  “When they’re teasing you.” Hawke releases me, his eyes darker than the sky above us. I wait for him to touch me again. He doesn’t.

  “You’re bad.” I smack his chest, taking out my frustration on his hard form.

  “I’m the worst.” He laughs as he mounts the bike. I wiggle closer to him, not waiting for him to tug on my legs. Our bodies fit together perfectly. He feels right, and this worries me.

  I have to end our relationship, but not yet, not now. This trip to Chicago will belong to the two of us, one last ride creating memories I can revisit in the future.

  I hold on to Hawke as he navigates the dips and swells of the field, bounces the bike along the gravel road, rejoins the highway. The ride smoothens. I rest my helmeted head against my former marine’s back, trusting him to keep me safe.

  At the West Steger Road on-ramp, another biker joins us. The bearded man accelerates until he rides beside Hawke. The two men glance at each other and exchange a nod. The stranger then slows his big black bike, falling back to ride behind us. The logo of his club is blazed across his leather jacket. Silver chains decorate his boots. Live Free is tattooed on his fingers.

  With each passing mile, more and more bikers surround us. All of the leather-clad, tattooed men seem to know and respect Hawke, communicating without a word. I pay attention, noting the hierarchy, the unspoken language, the rituals.

  Many of the men have military references, on either their jackets, their bikes, or their tattoos. Some of them have old ladies, as I heard the men at the Road Gator call their women. The ladies perch on the back of the bikes. Very few of the riders wear helmets, and none of these helmets is as pretty as mine.

  When we reach Chicago, our impromptu gang splits once more into individuals, the bikers exiting at different streets, leaving us. I lean against Hawke, linking my fingers over his defined abs, seeking to hold on to him, to keep him with me forever.

  I shouldn’t feel this way. Nicolas is my future. He’s in my plan. I have to let Hawke go. It isn’t fair to him or to my future husband or to me. My divided loyalties add unnecessary complications to my already stressful life.

  We roll to a stop in front of the condo building, and I hop off the bike. My legs aren’t as stiff with this trip. I grin. I’m becoming a seasoned rider. Not that I will be sharing Hawke’s bike in the future.

  This thought dims my joy, and I remove my helmet. “Thank you for today.” I reluctantly hand that piece of functional art to him, my fingers lingering over the image of the brown hawk soaring in the blue sky.

  “The helmet is yours.” He covers my hand with his, his skin warm and rough. “But I’ll hold it for you.” His eyes twinkle. “You won’t be riding with anyone other than me.”

  “I shouldn’t be riding with you.” I square my shoulders, determined to end this. “Hawke, I—”

  He lunges forward and skims his lips over mine, scattering my thoughts. Hawke touches me with a mind-melting tenderness, tasting, teasing, tormenting me, gliding the tip of his tongue over my kiss-swollen flesh, leaving his imprint on my soul.

  I should break away, tell him no, refuse to see him again, yet I can’t, not now, perhaps not ever. Our breaths mesh and mingle. His stubble rasps against my chin, leaving the burn I’ve grown to crave. His fingers stroke mine. Desire swirls around us, binding our bodies together, connecting us as I’ve never been connected to another person. He’s part of me.

  “You ride with me, love.” Hawke rests his forehead against mine. “My number is in your phone. If you ever need me.” He pinches my chin, the slight pain sharpening my wits, returning me to reality. “Call. If you simply want to talk, call. It doesn’t matter what time it is, where I am, or what I’m doing.”

  My breath hitches. “I’m a priority for you?” I’ve never been a priority for anyone.

  “Always.” Hawke straps the helmet to the back of his seat. “Enjoy your dinner tonight.” He revs the throttle. “I’ll be watching you.” He chuckles as he rides away.

  He’ll be watching me. I stare at his back, gazing at him until he turns the corner. That should anger, not arouse me.

  Nicolas. I must focus on Nicolas. I turn and glance upward. The camera over the entrance is pointed directly at me. Shit. If he’s viewing the feed, he saw us kiss, again.

  I have to stop doing this, have to stop jeopardizing my future. My fingers twist around the chain Hawke gave me.

  Tonight, my inner turmoil will end. Nicolas will finally kiss me properly, with heat, with passion, and I’ll commit to him fully, forgetting about my tattooed biker. I stride into the building,
my head held high.

  I DROP MY backpack off at the condo, place the flattened lasagna in the fridge, and check my phone for messages. There’s nothing from Cyndi, my best friend, nothing from Friendly, my mysterious texter, nothing from Nicolas, my future husband.

  There is another entry in my personal phone book, Hawke having listed his number under the descriptor of Boyfriend. The arrogant idiot also added his selfie to my photo folder. I should delete both.

  I will delete both.

  But not today. I throw a load of laundry into the washing machine, send Cyndi a text message asking where the hell she is, and consider taking down her decorations. Who knows when she’ll return home?

  I’ll give my roommate and her lavish display of love more time. Hawke’s scent clings to my skin, and blades of grass are stuck to my denim-clad ass. I must be losing my mind because I find this well-used state thrilling, not disgusting.

  Other people wouldn’t be as accepting. I reluctantly take a quick shower, washing the remnants of our passion-filled afternoon down the drain, and I don a classic black day dress, pairing it with my ballerina flats. My hair is twisted off my shoulders. I gaze at my reflection in the vanity’s mirror and nod, pleased. Lona won’t find anything wrong with my sophisticated image.

  Hearing the escort’s proposal has to be done. I suspect I know what it is—an offer to be her protégée, an offer I will turn down—and I dread the guilt that will follow. My mom needs the money.

  I take the elevator to the fifth floor. My sun-flushed face and kiss-swollen lips reflect in the mirrored walls, supplying proof of my hypocrisy. I gave Hawke, a man I shouldn’t ever see again, a hand job in an open field, where anyone could have watched us. The only difference between Lona and me is I did it for free.

  And I care for him. Ignoring this delusional voice, I exit the elevator. The fifth floor resembles its counterpart on the third, the walls beige, the fixtures gold, and the carpet rich red. The door to five oh one south is disappointingly identical to the door to our condo unit. I expected color or a sign or something indicating a high-class escort lived there.

  I glance to the left and to the right. The hallway is clear. There’s no one to witness my visit, to spread rumors damaging my carefully crafted reputation.

  I press the doorbell and wait and wait and wait. Sweat edges down my spine. What am I doing? If Nicolas, hell, even Hawke, knew I was visiting a prostitute, they’d think twice about associating with me, wanting me, needing me.

  The door swings open, Lona’s expensive perfume scenting the air. A tall, skinny bald man wearing an expensive black suit stands on the threshold. He studies me, his dark brown eyes glittering with intelligence. “Yes?” His voice is deep.

  I swallow hard. “Lona wanted to see me,” I whisper, not wishing to be overheard.

  “Quentin, let the poor girl in.” Lona’s laugh is muffled by distance and sounds shaky, as though she’s uncomfortable. “You’re scaring her.”

  He reluctantly steps to the side. His gaze remains fixed on me.

  The design of Lona’s unit is identical to the one I share with Cyndi. Her style is vastly different. The furniture is dark wood, classic, antique. The oil paintings hanging on the walls appear old, the gold frames intricately carved. A chandelier lights the main room. The appliances in the open-concept kitchen are stainless steel.

  Lona emerges from a bedroom. “Quentin is understandably protective.” She pats the man’s arm. “Even though I don’t complete business here, we’ve received some rather interesting guests over the years.” She’s dressed casually. . .for Lona, wearing a white sleeveless turtleneck and black flowing Armani pants. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted cherry red. Her hair frames her impeccably made-up face, the color of her lipstick matching her toenails.

  Lona’s image screams weekend while I’m overdressed, having tried too hard to impress her. My face heats. It’s a beginner’s mistake that any woman, including Tara, my high school nemesis, would pounce on. I brace for the snide comments, the humiliation, the pain.

  “Come in.” Lona hooks her arm in mine, leads me to a cream-colored couch. Quentin, the driver, gives me one more long hard look and then disappears into one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind him.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” the escort offers, moving to the small kitchen. “Coffee? Water? Juice?”

  “No, thank you.” I pluck on my flared skirt, waiting for her to ridicule my clothes, to judge me. Lona flits around the space, opening drawers and fluffing cushions. She says nothing about my appearance.

  “You said you had a proposal for me,” I finally speak, cutting through the polite social crap, wishing to leave before she notices my outfit.

  “If this is the proposal I think it is, I’m not interested.” Though I’m tempted. I gaze around the room. Her impeccable taste is reflected in every corner, and the furniture and objects are exquisite.

  “I won’t do what you do.” I’m unable to compromise my beliefs, even to help my mom. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Lona’s eyes flash. “You don’t think you could have sex with men for money?”

  I’ve hurt her. My stomach wrenches. I don’t want to hurt anyone. “I don’t think I could have sex with men without caring for them,” I explain. “And then to have those men leave me every day?” I shudder. “It would break my heart over and over again.”

  “Caring is an occupational hazard.” The escort sighs. “Even I have that difficulty from time to time.” Crimson creeps up her cheeks. “Which is why I need your help.” Her gaze slides away from mine.

  I don’t need Hawke’s expertise in observation to see she’s nervous. Her bare toes tap on the hardwood. Her voice is sharp, lacking her renowned huskiness.

  Lona must have seen everything in her years of business, dealt with thousands of awkward situations. What could make her nervous?

  “How can I help you?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

  “There’s a man, a client of mine.” Lona’s blush reaches her hairline. “I care for him, too much.” She runs trembling fingers over her pants. “He’s the man I’m changing my lifestyle for.”

  “He’s the man.” I glance at the closed door. Has she fallen in love with her driver?

  “The man’s not Quentin.” Lona reads my thoughts as easily as Hawke does. “He stays here to safeguard me from harm. He’s never been anything other than a dear, devoted friend.”

  She pauses, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Anxiety radiates from the normally refined escort. I gaze at her, fascinated by this transformation. She must truly be in love.

  “The man I adore is an important businessman,” Lona continues, her voice filled with pride. “I’ve known Jacques for years. He’s smart and charming and he has always treated me as though I’m special, as though I’m his lover rather than an escort. He owns a beautiful vineyard in the south of France. I could happily spend the rest of my life there and never leave.” Her eyes grow dreamy, and my heart squeezes.

  “Your Jacques knows everything about you and he loves you?” I ask, unable to hide my skepticism. I haven’t found someone who will accept my sexual kinks, who will stay with me forever, and Lona’s perversions make my ventures into exhibitionism seem tame.

  “He does love me but, as you know, relationships aren’t that simple.” Lona’s fingers twist in the fabric of her pants. “Jacques has a son with his first ex-wife. Francois is a little older than you. He’s very handsome and manages the vineyards in California. Someday he’ll be as wealthy as his father but—”

  “No.” I stand, having heard enough. “I’m not having sex with the son.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Lona stands between the door and me, blocking my escape. “That’s not what I need.” Her fingers flutter over her stomach. “Francois doesn’t approve of me, of what I’ve done. He’s a very angry young man. Jacques says it isn’t me, that his time in the army caused his rage, but with others, he’s polite. With me, he isn’t.” She t
akes a ragged breath. “We’re having lunch tomorrow, and it has to go well. Jacques worries for his son, wants him to be happy, and he’ll never marry a woman his son can’t tolerate.”

  Lona is a fellow pervert. The son will never tolerate her.

  “Why don’t you start fresh? Leave everything and everyone behind you,” I urge, wanting to protect my new friend from the pain of rejection. “Go somewhere no one knows you and live a normal life.” This is what I’ve done, hiding my true self under a good-girl façade.

  “That would be the rational approach.” Lona’s smile is sad. “But love isn’t rational, and my foolish heart is set on Jacques. I’ve devised a plan.”

  I blink. She’s right. We are alike, two perverts with plans.

  Lona straightens her shoulders. “You’ll be our fourth at the table. Your presence will force his son to make civilized conversation, to listen to me, and I know once he does this, I can win him over.”

  I tilt my head, considering her proposal. Her crazy plan might work. I open my mouth.

  “You’ll be compensated, of course,” Lona adds before I can speak. “You’ll receive one thousand dollars for tomorrow’s lunch.”

  My jaw drops. That’s more than I make in a week.

  “There’s no sex required,” she bluntly reiterates. “But you might have to kiss him on the cheek. They’re French.” Lona smiles. “Quentin, my driver, will pick you up here. There’s no need to use one of your precious limo chits.”

  My chin jerks upward and I meet her gaze. How does she know about the limo chits? Friendly sent them and Friendly is Nicolas. . .isn’t he?

  “I’ll supply you with three dresses plus shoes and purses,” Lona continues. “Choose one to wear and keep the rest.”

  She’s very concerned about this lunch. “You’re my friend.” As I say this, I realize it’s true. “You don’t have to pay me.” Tomorrow, I’ll kick myself for turning down her offer.

  “I’m paying you.” Lona’s mouth flattens. “This isn’t a friendly lunch. I have your phone number and I’ll send you the details, what you’re expected to say and do, how to wear your hair, the makeup you should use.”