Hawk

 

“Then, lunch it is.” I stepped back from her. “I promise to do less flirting.”

“Good.”

She didn’t want me to be her distraction, but it was all I could think of. The whole time I drew her, I wanted to rip off that coat. Thank God, she hadn’t modeled for me nude yet. The situation might’ve been disastrous. I was already moving too fast—rushing toward the endgame like a starving horny man.

When she was around me, this intense urge came over.

Why are you taking her to lunch?

I just wanted to be close to her, hold her hand. Keep her next to me. But this fear rose inside, telling me if I ever gave her too much distance, I’d lose my chance of seeing her again. Of course, it was irrational and crazy. But I couldn’t push the feeling away. 

I should calm down, before I scare her.

“I’ll let you get dressed and we can meet downstairs.” I tried to clear the lusty fog in my head to think things through, but nothing came up except images of her naked and my covering paint all over her body. With that visual, my breathing shifted to panting.

“Okay.” She walked off and I studied those hips swaying under that fur. Wrapped in luxury, she looked like a goddess that ruled over wild furry beasts. And all I could think about was her ruling over me and how good it would feel.

As soon as the door closed behind her, I found my breath. “What the hell was that? You came on too strong and then you pulled away and then came and then pushed again? She’s not a fucking yoyo, man.”

I bet she hears me talking to myself. Great job, Hawk.

It had been a long time since I’d obsessed over anybody. Personally, I didn’t want to lose myself in another person again.

Lisa was the last time I lost control. Never again.

 I’d just started my company Rebel Media. We backed newspapers, websites, some radio, and indie networks that were focused on true investigative journalism. Brett served on my legal side, when he wasn’t busy running the family’s company. Several of my fraternity brothers joined the staff. Due to my family having some money and the company making profit immediately, Lisa and I decided that she didn’t have to work. She wanted to write a true crime novel and had begun researching serial killers.

Things had gone fine. A year later, I held a company picnic. That night, one of the managers of Rebel Media died. The police called it a suicide.

We were all in shock. Everyone wondered why a rich kid from a Wall Street family with a trust fund wife, and a big house in the suburbs would tear his wrists apart and bleed out in his bathroom.

Yet, everything seemed on the up-and-up, until more suicides came. Other Rebel Media employees just disappeared, their families never hearing from them again.

And I had all types of ideas about who could be behind it—the government, some sicko politician opposing the media, the Russians. Everybody remained on edge, paranoid and trusting no one.

Meanwhile, no one considered that there could be a serial killer in our social circle, smiling and telling jokes. Baking us fresh homemade cakes and cookies and bringing them to the headquarters as she scoped out her next victim.

In the years of Rebel Media’s rise, there’d been five employee suicides and five people that had gone missing. And they were all men that were connected to my company, but no other similarities. One was gay. Another transgender. The rest were heterosexual men from different economic classes, races, and religions. The cops refused to investigate the suicides, and the private investigators that Brett and I’d hired for the missing people could never figure it out.

They were only certain that all ten people had been murdered.

Rebel Media gained notoriety, went public, and rose to millions in shares. Still, this dark cloud of death hovered over us. There’d been a joke on the internet that we should change our logo to the grim reaper. Many employees feared for their life and quit. Others began investigating the matter on their off time. Even I became obsessed.

Had I been working with my head and not my heart, I could’ve saved all of Lisa’s victims.

A few weeks before I discovered everything, Lisa had begun to act weird, sneaking around and leaving our bed in the middle of the night. I didn’t worry too much because she never left the property. I’d followed her downstairs one night and all she did was stand by the kitchen window and stare into the backyard. Another time, she walked outside to the backyard and just lay on the ground for an hour, rubbing the dirt along her skin.

I didn’t know what to do. Many things came to mind—mental illness, depression, hysteria. I’d assumed that my obsession with the murders and Rebel Media had caused a strain on her.

One morning, I sat her down, confessed that I’d been watching her at night, and suggested we both go to a therapist. She cried, fell into my arms, and told me she would go. But, she never did. And I didn’t want to push her.

Meanwhile, I thought the backyard was somehow a key to fixing her. With the suicides and missing people following me everywhere in public, I decided to just focus on helping Lisa.

Had I been a shitty husband, I would’ve never known her secret.

To surprise her, I sent her off to the spa and hired a team to create an amazing garden in our backyard. It was where she spent all her evenings. At least I could make it into a paradise for her to escape in.

The gardener and crew had a huge image of Renoir’s famous painting “Woman with a Parasol in a Garden.”  This had been Lisa’s favorite piece. It showed two small figures, one a woman whose parasol shaded her from the sun and a man stood next to her, leaning down as if to pick a flower. I hired the gardener and his team to transform our backyard into Renoir’s impressionist painting. Everyone had been excited, especially since the budget went beyond six figures. Trucks delivered tons of flowers and shrubs covered in many different colors and textures.

They started digging that morning. I’d even helped dig to hurry the surprise.

And then someone found a bone.

And another.

And another.

And my world, my life, it tornadoed into this very dark thing.

The gardener argued that the bones were too big for an animal, that they had to be human. The crew started looking at me with fear in their eyes as if I’d buried them myself. And the more we dug, the more a rotting stench filled the air.

I called the police. News crews arrived with them. Lisa hadn’t returned home yet. Being that a Rebel Media employee badge was with one of the bones, I was arrested and in jail by that evening. After two hours, they let me out. I’d had alibis for all the murders. Each time, I’d been out of town, speaking at tech conferences.

I went home to a dark house. My lovely fiancée met me within the shadows of my hallway, stuck a needle in my neck, took me miles away, and kept me in a cage for two days.

Jesus! For once, stop thinking about this.

And here I was now, about to get lost in another woman.

Stop it. Stop thinking about Lisa. Stop thinking about Yaz.

No other woman could have me feeling that way again. Not even Yaz.

Fucking Cherry Bomb. Can I even call her that anymore? She’s not that cute little girl I had a crush on. She’s an incredible woman.

To admit that she knocked me off my feet would be an understatement. I couldn’t point at one thing or another. It could’ve been our history. It could’ve been Lisa tainting my idea of love and Yaz showing me something new. It could’ve been just plain old fear.

But after seeing Yaz again, suddenly, I began remembering the sweet feeling of new love, the bubbling excitement that came. The fire of attraction. The constant arousal. After all that had happened, I didn’t think I would ever feel those sensations.

Yaz triggered more than inspiration to paint. Every time I turned her way, desire surged through my blood and throbbed in every bone. Potent with charm, she made my heart stir and my body crave more.

Even now as she dressed down below, I kept wondering why I hadn’t taken her on that long white couch. Why hadn’t I slid the fur coat and exposed her naked body? Why hadn’t I slipped my fingers along that soft skin?

I could’ve told her anything she wanted to hear. I could’ve lied and promised to give her more.

Not with her. I can’t pretend with her. She would see through it.

And now with the line between us clear, I still wouldn’t stop trying to cross it. There was too much unspoken lust bridging between us. It was why I had to take her out to lunch afterwards. I didn’t want this feeling to end and I dreaded the lonely hours ahead.

She’s not going to want to just have sex. She’ll want more. Fuck. I want more with her.

But just because I felt that way around her didn’t mean I could give those feeling back. I was too damaged, too abused. She deserved better—a normal guy with a simple past. Some other douche-bag had already broken her heart. The last thing I needed to do was convince her to let me use her body as a sex doll.

I will break her heart if she gets involved with me. In the end, they always cry.

 That scared me. I knew I could give her too much control, and that very thought sent cold shivers up my skin. I knew I would just let go and we would be happy for a week or so, and then the depression would come again, and I would distance myself.

I couldn’t do that when she’d already lost so much in life.

No. Leave this alone. I’ll just take her out to lunch. Well...and paint her again. And maybe do another lunch or dinner or... fuck. What am I saying?

I put on my shoes, headed downstairs, and waited for her, pacing the whole time. This should’ve been a simple situation. We were two friends having lunch. But in my mind, a complicated beast rose. Fear. Lots and lots of fear. For a minute, I almost called the lunch off, convincing myself that I’d be wasting both of our time by doing it.

Wine, food, and lust, those things didn’t go with friends. They went with courting. What would wine and conversation with her do but make my cock even stiffer than it had been in the studio?

This is madness.

If Yaz had been any other woman, I would’ve had her bent over the couch and pounding my cock into her until the next morning. I knew more could’ve happened in the studio today. She wanted me. That was apparent. Lust blazed in her eyes. A few times she captured that sweet bottom lip with her teeth. Another time she softly moaned.

I almost spread that coat apart and kissed her between her thighs.

Yeah. I’m going to cancel. We can’t do lunch together. This is crazy.

Yaz came downstairs and thoughts of canceling disappeared. A lovely sundress molded around her curvy body. It was a clean and innocent look, and I wanted to spend the rest of the day dirtying her up. My hands itched to touch her. Had she been mine the dress would’ve been ripped and torn on the floor.

Fuck that. We’re going to lunch.

“Are you ready?” I extended my hand.

“Yes.”

She gave me hers. Her fingers felt warm.

Hand-in-hand, we left the house. Several people on conch cruisers sped by. Conch cruisers were these bicycles that were painted and decorated with outrageous artwork and embellishments.

We crossed Front Street and went to down to Captain’s seafood restaurant. It was in Key West’s tiny art district, a few blocks of tropical inspired murals and colorful houses where poets and painters loved to hang out. Known for the freshest fish in the Keys, the place remained packed for lunch and dinner.

We entered the space and walked up the sweeping curved staircase.

Elegant and casual, Captain’s had a tropical British colonial look that suited the restaurant well. White paint covered the walls while sleek furniture was black and red. Candlelight flickered along comfy leather chairs and expensive art hung on the walls—beautiful mermaids with shiny tails. Glittering gems hung along their breasts and hid their nipples. 

When we arrived, a smiling hostess guided us to a table on a deck with an excellent view of crystal blue waters off in the distance.

Out here, torches lit the area and a live band played. A woman with long brown hair stood on the tiny stage. She wore a white sundress, but nothing as stunning as what Yaz had on. Still, beautiful words left her lips and the urge to take Yaz out on the dance floor hit me.

A drummer, saxophonist, and piano player were positioned behind her.

“she sang over a bluesy melody. “Will this ever end? Will we ever see? How mad? How mad we play?”

“Do you like this table?” I asked her.

Yaz nodded as she continued to be captivated by the singer. “This is great.”

I pulled out her seat before the hostess could. “Can we have your list of champagnes? We’re celebrating.”

“Yes, sir.” The hostess handed us two brown leather folders bound with colorful ribbons. “Here’s the menu.”

The saxophone accompanied the lyrics in a smooth drawl, taunting each word. “There is no end, when two souls are lost. But is it love, if there is no cost?”

We sat down.

“Such a mad, mad game. Still, I’m calling your name. Still, you’re in my dreams at night. Still, I’m in darkness and you’re the only light.” And then she sang louder and higher with so much emotion, like the love of her life had ripped out her heart and was holding it on the stage in front of her. “Such a mad, mad game!”

“Our appetizer for the day is sea bass carpaccio.” The hostess began to say something else, but I stopped her.

 “That sounds good. We’ll order that for now.” I didn’t want to hear the menu. I wanted to hear more of the song and maybe get some clue to what I should do. I didn’t know why, but I felt like she was singing to me.

“Still, I’m calling your name! You’re the only one. You’re the only one.” The singer closed her eyes and the music slowly lowered. “You’re the only one. You’re the only one.”

“Good.” The hostess nodded, breaking up the magic of the song. “I’ll tell the chef and send the waitress back for your order.”

“Thank you,” Yaz said as she continued to watch the band.

The music ended.

Everyone clapped, including us.

“Thank you.” The singer bowed. “We’re Cracked Heart. We’ll be right back after a few minutes. That song always takes a lot out of me.”

“That’s alright,” a guy a few tables away from us hooted. “You come on back now.”

The singer smiled. “I will. Thank you.”

When the band left, Yaz turned to me. “You know I’ve never been here?”

“Really?” I placed my hands on the table.

“No. Cindy is always cooking and then the place has a chef, so why not just eat there for free? But...wow. Just wow.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

I gestured to the back of her chair. “You didn’t bring the fur with you.”

“I’m not comfortable with accepting something so expensive from you.”

“Why? Is it because I’m Hawkins?”

“Kind of.” She smiled. “You’re my friend. We do things for each other because it’s fun and we should. We don’t do things for furs that could buy houses.”

“Is that right? But don’t I owe you a new Prince poster?”

“Damn it.” She widened her eyes and hit my hand. “I forgot about that. You burned him.”

“Hey.” I raised my hands in the air. “Not intentionally. I was trying to make a light saber and the flamed stick caught on the poster.”

“Yeah, and it caught on my bed. And the carpet. And the My Little Pony curtains.”

“That’s right.”

“Cindy came close to killing me. If not for Victor keeping her calm, I might not be here today.”

“This is true. So, you see, you deserve the coat.”

“Yes, I do.” She giggled.

“You should get it the next time you model for me.”

She took time before she answered. I waited in silence. We’d agreed that I would paint her a few times, but after that moment in my studio, I wasn’t sure if she wanted to end it now.

But finally, she whispered, “Okay. I’ll get the coat, when I model for you again.”

“Good.”

The hostess returned with an excellent list of champagnes, sparkling wines, red, and white from over six hundred national and international labels. After Yaz picked a bottle, the hostess continued with the specialties of the day. We ended up with the same specialty—mouth-watering gnocchi topped with shrimp.

Sipping from a glass of chilled champagne, I said, “Tell me about this guy you were casting spells over.”

“What?” She almost choked on her champagne. “I will not.”

“Please.”

“Why?”

“I’m nosey.”

“Fine. His name is Greg. He produced a couple of movies. Being as cliché as possible, he cheated on me with his assistant several times. I’d just been forgiving him for that when I came home and found him in bed with some woman giving him a blow job. Our bed. The end.”

“Damn.”

“Yes.”

“And he does movies?”

“Yes.”

“Anything I would’ve seen?”

“Probably not. They’re indie sci-fi, yet super sexual and violent movies. And they all went straight to DVD.”

“I like sci-fi. Try me. Maybe I’ve heard of him.”

“Have you ever seen ‘The Girl that Sat on the Moon?’”

“No. Never heard of it.”

“What about...” She rolled her eyes. “‘The Last Penis from Outer Space?’”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that a joke?”

“I wish.” She took another sip. “And then there was the ‘Last Tango on Mars,’ which actually did pretty good due to its play on the famous title, The Last Tango in Paris. The movie sucked, but at least more people saw it.”

“So, you’re not a fan?”

“I was a fan, when I was with him. Now that we’re not together, I don’t have to pretend to love a scene of two purple, big breasted aliens sliding their naked bodies against this hundred-foot monster with an erection the size of a car, as he spurts out green sludge from the tip and roars...” She lowered into a deep voice. “‘Slaves. Slaves. Rub my cock and we will defeat our enemies.’”

“Whoa.”

“Yes.”

I poured us both another glass. “You must tell me more. I’m enjoying this.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“There’s always more. How was he as your fiancé? Romantic? Loving?”

“He was really thoughtful in the beginning. Affectionate. Dependable. And then later, he turned into a deceitful, spineless baby man.”

“What about the sex?”

“Um...good?”

I grinned. “You’re asking me?”

“What do you want me to do, show you our old videos?”

“No. I might get jealous.”

She giggled. “Then all I can say is good.”

“But, did he make you come?”

She darted a glance at our surroundings as if someone could overhear us. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Woody Allen said that the only difference between sex and love is that sex relieves tension and love causes it.” 

“Woody Allen isn’t the type of guy I would get my sex and love advice from.”

“True, but it’s a good point.”

She tapped her glass against mine. “It actually is.”

“So?”

“What?” She brought the glass back to her and tried to hide behind it.

“Did he make you come?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I could’ve slapped the guy for that. “Jesus. And you were with him for five years?”

She shrugged. “You don’t come all the time.”

“Says fucking who?”

“He was my first.”

“Clearly.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it, but I could tell she wanted to laugh at me and herself. Meanwhile, all I could think about was that I should’ve been her first and that if I ever saw this asshole, I would rearrange his face.

How could he cheat on her?

The waitress brought our dishes over and the band returned. The food was so delicious, our conversation shifted into the enjoyment of the meal. She made me laugh close to tears as she told me stories of her college years. Luckily, college had been a good time for me. I had a few funny moments of my own. Conversation flowed without effort. We had similar taste in movies and music.

We both stayed away from any further topic of her ex or mine. After we ate, she even let me take her on the floor and dance.

Jesus.

I thought I would explode. In my arms, she was soft and warm and smelled so fucking good. She only gave me one song for a dance, but I prayed the whole time it would never end. We ended up ordering dessert and later, coffee. By the time we finished, it was clear neither one of us wanted to end our time together. But we couldn’t think of anything else to extend it. Eventually, our meal had to end.

The sky had begun to dim as the sun set. We walked back, passing darkened shop doors and quiet buildings. We took the longer route, so she could show me Soul Tribe, the holistic center she’d mentioned days ago.

“Thank you, Hawk. This was an amazing day.”

“It was,” I said to my own surprise. “I haven’t had a day like this in a long time.”

“Maybe, someday you’ll tell me why.”

From that response, I was certain she hadn’t googled me, and I was grateful for that.

Nodding, I said, “I will tell you one day, Cherry Bomb.”

We got to the back of her sister’s property where the service entrance was located. An avocado-green door stood in front of us. Seagulls cawed off in the distance. Lines of pink and blue lined the sky. Shadows surrounded us. A cool breeze blew through her red dreadlocks and I had the immediate urge to run my fingers through them.

I don’t want to say goodbye yet.

She took her keys out and turned my way. “Why do you get to call me by my nickname, but I can’t call you Hawkins?”

“Because that name is stupid and yours is cute.”

“But I’m not cute anymore, Hawk.” She kissed the air in front of her. “I’m a grown and sexy woman.”

“Yes, you are.” I closed the distance between us, startling us both. Maybe it was the way she kissed the air. Perhaps it was the burning lust roaring through me. But I couldn’t be around her for another second without touching her.

She leaned back against the door, widened her eyes, and whispered, “What are you doing?”

“What should I do?” I placed my hands on the door behind her, trapping her in. “Tell me. What do you think I should do right now?”

She licked her lips, but didn’t answer.

“Have you decided on when you’re going back to LA?” I asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “When are you leaving?”

“I don’t know either. I’m waiting on you to tell me.”

She let out a nervous giggle. “Well...I’m waiting on you too.”

“Okay.” I leaned in a little closer. My heartbeat increased. “I don’t plan on going anywhere right now. You’ve managed to do what Key West hasn’t been able to do in years.”

“What?”

“Give me an escape from my life.” I moved a stray red dreadlock away from her face. “I don’t plan on going anywhere, until you do.”

“And then what?” she asked.

“I might follow you.”

“Very funny.”

I don’t know if I’m playing or not.

I ran my fingers through her dreadlocks. A soft moan left her lips.

“Let’s stop playing around,” I whispered.

“We’re not.”

“You should be mine. While we’re here.”

“Yours?”

I loved the way she said yours. It sounded good on her tongue. And speaking of that mouth, I wanted to taste it. My hunger must’ve been all over my face because she bit that bottom lip and looked away.

“Yes, mine.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead, more because I was scared she would stop me from taking her lips. And in this moment, I was too raw. I couldn’t deal with any rejection, especially coming from her.

She cleared her throat and asked again. “Yours?”

“Yes, mine for our stay. And it’s not what you think. I’m not talking about trapping you into a quick relationship.”

“Then, what are you talking about?”

“Sex. I want you to be mine to do with as I want.”

She blinked and stood there speechless for several seconds, and then she laughed. “You what? No relationship, but sex?” She gently pushed me away. “Hawk, please.”

I held out my hands. “What?”

“You had me... until you started talking.”

“But, Yaz—”

“It sounds like you’re just going to use me up and when you’ve had your fun, you’ll just throw me away.”

“I won’t.”

“I just broke up with someone. My heart is all destroyed.”

“I don’t want your heart. I want your body.”

“Yeah, well, unfortunately, my heart is inside of my body. If you touch the inside of me, you’ll certainly brush against my heart.” She tapped her key against her thigh. “I’m not some chick that you just fuck with and then move on from.”

“You’re not.”

“And you’re crazy if you think I could just have sex with you—someone I’ve known longer than any other man—and just walk away like that. And what women would go for that deal?”

“Many do.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Then you have fun with them.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, you’re right.”

“I am.”

“Still...I’m going to kiss you right now.” I pulled her close to me and captured her mouth. She moaned against me, letting my tongue explore. Her lips were so soft. Her body molded against mine. In that moment, I didn’t care about what she’d just said. She’d caused this ache in my chest and I had to taste her.

And there was this nervousness, butterflies fluttering within my core. Did she feel their wings too?

“Hawk.” She drew in a quick breath as I brought my arms around her.

“No more talking.” I rested my hand on the curve of her hips and devoured her mouth again. I wanted to do more than kiss her. My cock should have been balls deep inside of her, not just my tongue sliding between her lips. But it was enough for now, so erotic and filled with lust, our tongues slipped against each other.

Another moan left her mouth.

Panting, she stepped away. “I bet you could.”

“Do you want to see?” I reached out for her.

She moved my hand. “No.”

My body blazed on fire, but I remained where I was. “Should I beg?”

“Do you know how?”

“I can learn.”

“No.” She looked away. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is.”

“Like you’ve said to others, I should guard my heart. Kissing doesn’t help.”

I had nothing to say as my cock went hard in my pants.

“Thank you for a great day, Hawk.” She raked her finger through her dreadlocks, turned around, and unlocked the door. “Have a nice evening.”

“You too, Cherry Bomb.”