CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“It’s not true you hurt the one you love. I hate myself and yet I’m the one hurting the most. - Hawk.

 

 

 

 

There was something to be said for the dirty insanity of Louisiana. After being here for nigh on three weeks Hawk could figure out why; the fucking heat. It wasn’t just dry humidity, that he could deal with, it wasn’t only the blistering sun at all hours of the day, even in the fucking shade, that was passable, it was the deep down to the bone unbearable scorching incessant insects the heat brought out in droves, that loved, absolutely loved chewing the hell out of his skin. He was wearing so much repellent he stank, not a problem, but he also had a thick film like a new layer of skin. He was oily and the little dickheads still preferred to suck on him. He swatted a mosquito on his nape, cursed the air blue. If he could shoot them without blowing off his own head, he would.

He wanted to shoot something in the face and as things were standing he was going to be that person.

He hated the south. It was too hot, too busy, and he was thinking of swimming with an alligator just for a cooling break.

Picking up the bottle of Corona, he drank half, scanning the bar on Lafayette boulevard. A complete shit-hole, but it was the bar of choice for the prez and his men. When in Rome. Hawk didn’t fit in at all.

Hawk knew ten minutes later he didn’t like the bar, its people or the fucking state when some ass-jockey with piercings in his eyebrows and nose bumped his shoulder, deliberately knocking over Hawk’s drink.

He stared at the smirking guy challenging him.

Wrong move. Really it was the wrong damn move. Hawk kicked his head back, his neck rolling, all the tiny bones keeping his head upright began cracking, noting the guy wore a vest from another MC from this area. He was too hot and irritated to let it slide.

So, the bar was Switzerland. They had those back at home. Different MC’s could circulate in the same joints, long as they agreed on no weapons, no fights no hassles.

He didn’t start this. He reasoned, feeling his fist clench hanging down by his sides. All his bones began to relax. Hawk always calmed when he was about to put the hurt on someone.  This was his catnip and aphrodisiac.

Not his fault, when the noise between his ears cranked up like the death march.

His fucking music of life. He could salsa to this shit.

He didn’t know any more until ten minutes later, his lungs churning air, and blood not his own dripping off his hands, animalistic snarls coming out of him, he blinked and returned into the room, looking at stunned fearful faces.

Oops. Nah, not like he gave a shit how people looked at him. People’s opinions didn’t even register.

The hot copper scent of blood filled his nostrils, coated his lungs with every obscure breath.

In. out. In. out.

Air whipped from the AC cooling his temper, bringing clarity back to his brain, snatches of what he'd done coming back to him.

Bastards were lucky to still be alive, crawling away, but alive. Only just. Five had thought to attack him for no goddamn reason. They’d learned their lesson.

Knuckles cracked open, he flexed them, testing out the bones, bending unbroken.

“Goddammit, you demented fuckstick, you haven’t been here five shitting minutes and already causing hell. Get the fuck back to the clubhouse.” Hawk glared at Shark as if to say you ain’t my president to bark orders at me. The dark-haired man was fair enough as presidents go but Hawk had allegiant to but one, didn’t matter he was residing in a brother chapter of the Renegade Souls, he could give a shit for anyone else’s ruling, so what if he’d just caused a small bar fight in a town that didn’t belong to him. He met the boss stare with a vicious one of his own. “Fucking now!” Snapped Shark, two of his boys coming up to flank his sides. Hawk raised a brow. Silly little men. He sneered and grabbed his backpack. Screw this whole damn town. He was done anyway, their beer tasted like piss water and there was no pussy to be found that appealed to the sadistic tastes he had.

Because they’re not her.

Back at their compound, a smaller enclosed building than he was used to, it only housed four private flop rooms, tiny claustrophobic inducing closets really, taking a fortified breathe before he stepped inside, he tossed his bag on the bed, shrugged out of his coat and went to shower, he made it a fast one, watching the blood drain away, mesmerizing, he could poke his wounds and watch more blood fall, drip-drip-drip, he’d find nothing cathartic in it other than self-mutilation would buy into the lie he had some control over his own psychosis fixation.  

He knew someone who would have a field day digging into the dirt of his dark mind trying to figure out what made him tick. Dig deep, baby, swim in my darkness.

There was no figuring out his shithole of a mind, that was the secret. He was unfixable. A functional sociopath was still a sociopath so he was accused. Fortunately for him, society housed many monsters.

He finished in the shower, taped his ripped knuckles, was finishing off when a knock on the door reared his head. Shark on the other side. Shrewd hazel eyes looking at Hawk, waiting for, what, an apology? When pigs shit out skittles, even then he’d give it a second thought. He didn’t start the bar fight, he only ended it.

“What’s it to be, slugger?”

“What?” He didn’t talk too much to the men here, preferring to keep to himself. He’d helped some in their auto-repair but other than that. His voice box felt rusty and underused. He fucking missed home.

“You in or out?” Ah that question. He didn’t have many options on his dance card, not since he killed a man in broad daylight seven months ago and that dead man was still hunted by the law, never going to find him.  So, Hawk was lying low away from the only home he’d ever known. His skin tight, his head a fucking mess, he missed Armado Springs, missed his club brothers, there was no connection to these men, being away from his coping mechanisms was fucking him up more than he thought, his hair-trigger tonight proof of that. He should have, could have, walked away, but the need to make someone hurt, to hear the crunch of bones was a noise only he heard. Hurt before you're hurt.

A lot of fucked up people from his past had a hand in making who Hawk was today and he wouldn't send a gift basket to any of them, mainly because most of them were dead already. 

“I don’t have any plans to leave.” He hedged finally and Shark nodded. He was wise not to reach out and clap Hawk on the arm.

He hated being touched but not for the reason someone would suspect.

Too many hands on him once upon a time. He did the touching now. With pain and fear.

“Good, son. We’re having some grub, you’re welcome to join us, that is if you can resist throwing a brother across the room.” Said lightly, the charm fell away from Shark’s eyes, he didn’t get the name because he was warm and cuddly. His warning clear.

Hawk shrugged. Shark took it for his answer, turned and left him alone. He could hear them all in the main area. It made him think of his own club. If he was missing Snake then he seriously needed some brain re-tuning because that idiot was annoying, always amused, who had that much to laugh about was what Hawk wanted to know.

A ping from his phone alerted to a message.

And god in hell his whole heart just seized up in his chest seeing a name.

She never messaged. Not in a long time. Not since he ignored her on his birthday. Women didn’t like being ignored, he knew it was the simplest way to get her to leave him alone without being a dick to her.

Gia. Right there on his phone screen. Bold as brass like she had a right to be in his shit. She could take all the rights she wanted with him. In his darker times, those weak moments she was the one he wanted to reach out to and bring her into his shadows, keep her there until it swallowed her up and the monsters had their fill. 

Close it out. He told himself. Don’t fucking engage. He didn’t need to see anything she had to say. What if it’s an emergency and she needs me? His heart thumped out of sync.

It was no big deal he’d wanted to fuck Rider’s baby sister since she was seventeen. With her tiny tits poking out of her shirt and that sweet baby innocence in her large eyes, he’d wanted to throw her on the ground, mount her and show her what it was to satisfy the hunger of a deranged motherfucker leaving no skin left untouched by his come.  She’d be dripping before he was done.

No big deal. He was a fucking animal then and now for wanting her. Rider would slice him from navel to eyebrows if he ever caught the flavor of some of Hawk’s darker thoughts about Gia.

His little bit of a thing was an addiction he shared with no one. And she wasn’t his.

He had a damn nerve wanting her. Someone should punch him in the face until he caught some common sense, or knocked into a coma where she'd be free of his deviant dreams.

His neck prickled. A tension only she brought boiled under his skin.

Fingers shaking, he plonked his ass down on the edge of the bed, a scowl marring his overgrown hairy face, the beard scraping his chest. He could give a shit about his appearance, it ran low on his list of priorities, loyalty to his brothers and staying alive ranking highest, but when he thought about the type of man Gia deserved, the man who would worship her, he was not a scruffy bastard with so many mental illnesses they stacked ten deep. He'd be a good man, a kind man, the type of man to deserve Gia.

Hawk was a piece of scum to want to stab his filth into her. He felt guilt even thinking of her in his darkest moments when he was weakest and she crept in to taunt him with everything he couldn’t have.

Not good enough.

Leave her alone.

He’d left her a-goddamn-lone for near ten years.

His thumb scrolled to open the text message. I can handle it was the single biggest lie he’d told that day. Feeling every punch of his heart against his ribs.

His cock awoke, alive and hurting. He almost had to pop open a button on his pants when his thoughts descended into how wet and tight she’d feel. Just how soft she'd be ... all over.

His own personal siren nightmare. What else could it be when his body only sparked alive when it was her. She made his lungs work, his heart beat.

It was a goddamn disease is what it was. Both brows pinched together, ready to delete without reading when he saw;

G: 9:57 - Hi, Hawk. Ambrosio said you were out of town for a while. Everything okay? Hope you’re good.

Hope you’re good. He read that sentence ten times. Hope you’re good.

Good was for normal men like Rider, who had found some slice of happiness for himself with that girl of his. From what he heard she was shaping up to be a worthy queen for the Renegade Souls.

Zara still made his scalp itch. It was instinctual, and not at all personal to the smaller woman. He’d saved her for Rider, it was also instinct, knowing how devastated Rider would have been had Hawk walked away and not killed Hades.

She’d done nothing to him and still, he was afraid of even talking to her for fear of seeing his shit mirrored back at him. She'd hugged him and he'd wanted to vomit all over the floor. Not her fault and all to do with him, he was a fucking basket case.

He wasn’t good. He was a goddamn cruel bastard.

And far from doing good. If he could manage to be steady he considered it as an okay day, a manageable day.

About to close out the message without reply, his thumb had a whole different idea. Cursing under his breath. What the hell. Send it, not like it mattered.

H: 10:07 - I'm fine. How’s the head shrinking, you fixed everyone in Texas yet?

He got the deviant joke loud and clear, the one about the biggest head case craving the taste of a psychiatrist. The little bit of a thing was smarter than most.

There was some biblical irony in that somewhere only Mary Magdalene would understand hitting above her weight grade.

Not even a minute later she replied with a laughing emoji

G: 10:08 – Ha Ha! Trying to! Are you coming to Texas any time soon? Miss seeing you.

He could practically see the subtly dripping from the letters. Gauging his reaction, using her head shrink knowledge on a demon would never work, she should know that by now. His chest tightened until he popped up to his feet, pacing the four-foot by four-foot room, glaring down at his phone.

What was the little bit of a thing doing to him? Twisting his insides until he didn’t recognize himself. Miss seeing you.

He wanted to bombard her with a million questions all starting and ending with was she seeing anyone? And then the two-part follow up question being; who the fuck was he and where did he live? so Hawk could do a small matter of homicide. Not anything clean either, nah, for the lucky sonovabitch who got to be with Gia, hold her, touch her as a normal man, he would paint the walls with his blood, his screams would rip so far down into Hawk’s soul that maybe for one night he’d have a slice of peace.

He asked her nothing.

Hope was a weak rebellion not meant for the likes of him. The last time he felt hope he was royally and painfully screwed over by people who knew better.

People of faith were the worst kind of scum. All hiding behind their righteous bible bashing and god-fearing ways. May God strike fear in your heart bullshit. He'd rather be a heathen than swallowing those lies. There was nothing more terrifying than a deluded human speaking for a non-existent entity and feeling righteous about every dirty thing they did in His name.

Hawk's belly sunk hollow, black and empty, much like his chest that corroded desire into something nasty and wrong. Hawk paced until his knees creaked, glaring down at his phone like he could reach through and touch what he was forbidden to want.

What would it be like? He wondered, with his mouth parched, his dick hurting. He wouldn’t jerk off, he didn’t deserve the release.

He wanted a fight, though. Maybe those pretty boys out there in the club would indulge, he could find their weak spots in minutes, those little foibles that made a person tick. It was his skill. You find the tick, you find the pressure point to a person blowing up. And then watch them implode.

She infested his mind, thoughts of worshipping her in dark ways, her laugh would be his reward, her screams his payment for a man worthy of being in her fucking presence and not dying of overexposure to all that goodness.

The devil couldn’t walk into a holy house and not expect a few flames.

Fuck, he needed a reality check yesterday.

How much more could he take of this? Back and forth he paced. From one end of the small room to the other.

The ping vibration in his hand startled him.

G: 10:27 - Did I scare you off? You don’t have to be. It would be nice to see you, we didn’t get time to chat in Colorado last year.

And then another right on its tail.

G: 10:28 – Please talk to me, Hawk. She included a sticky-out tongue emoji. He wanted to suck on her tongue. Wanted to shove his tongue into her pussy until he drowned.

And then.

G: 10:29 - We were friends a long time ago. Three emoji’s with it this time; a motorcycle, a man, and a woman. He remembered the night he took her home on the back of his bike, dainty fingers clutching his waist, branding him forever. He’d known then. She’d smelled of lemons and he still couldn’t see the fruit without wanting to pulverize it into mush.

His belly sunk lower, feeling the burn of memories.

They were never friends. She was a little bit of a thing he wanted to do disgusting shit to until she was painted in his come and nastiness.

He should have been fucking shot.

Worshipping Gia would have been the easiest thing Hawk had ever done in his miserable existence. He’d found the club, found Rider and by chance he’d met Rider’s baby sister a few years later, whose smile had rocked his fucking world and hadn’t righted itself since. Game fucking over.

He couldn’t have feelings for her or anyone, he was a cancer that had no cure.

Wasn’t that what they said?

His snarl was bitter and just a tiny bit unhinged as he replied.

H: 10:41 - Don’t message again, Gia. Get on with your nice normal life. I have no time to baby you.

He fucking hated himself. His gut burned. He tossed the phone to the bed and punched his fist into the wall, blood exploded out of the already torn knuckles. Did it again just to regroup himself.

“Motherfucker!” He snarled, teeth bared, eyes wild. Both fists clutching the side of his head, hating the noise.  

He didn’t want to look at her reply. She was too reasonable, he could hurt her and still like a goddamn abused puppy wagging its tail it would come back for more affection.

Blood rushed through his ears.

He felt sick. Bile rising in his throat.

Don’t make me look. Delete it. Fucking delete it, now!

It sat like a tumor inside his cell phone. Mocking him. Mastering him.

He looked. Instantly regretting it. Imagining her crestfallen face was about as bad as it got. Did her eyes fill with tears? Because of him and his cruelty.

G: 10:44 - One day I’ll learn my lesson. Bye, Hawk. Take care of yourself. No emoji this time.

It was whispered he was insane. He’d heard more than one person say it when they thought he wasn’t taking notice.

He always took note.

They weren’t wrong.

What else would explain this disease he had for a little bit of a thing crawling into his pores. He couldn’t shake it, out run it. Even now his cock was raging to be stroked, to empty inside her.

She was forbidden for good reason. Couldn’t she understand it was for her own good? He didn’t need Rider to kill him to get that message loud and clear. So why wasn’t he letting it go? Knives continued to dig into his kidneys, a harsh reminder of the self-inflicted pain only brought on with his obsession of one little bit of a thing.

Maybe they were right. His nasty was growing. You have a cancer in you, child, it’s black and badness the devil put there, only acts of goodness can expunge you. What they did was nothing good. And that’s what it always came back to. When he thought he could try being normal, the cancer gripped him again, the nastiness festered and spilled out of his guts. He was disturbed in the most hidden ways. A demon walking with men.  Sweet Gia didn’t deserve that touching her.

Hawk couldn’t breathe. He felt his lungs constrict tightly in his chest, air blocked half way down. He ripped open the door, pounded his boots down the corridor, lost for a second, he pushed his way into the common room, all eyes hit him, one dared to even venture forward, he snarled, warning them off. Fucking idiots trying to be friends.

He needed no one and wanted none.

When his fucked-up gaze landed on a bitch, no taller than his shoulder, red hair cut in a straight neck bob and tits bigger than melons, the opposite of his little bit of a thing, he pointed a long finger, curled his lip when her eyes rounded then smoked out to lust.

Fucking idiot.  

Motioning her forward, only one thing would get rid of Gia.

When she got closer, he smelled her fear, she was unsure of him, rightly so. Be afraid. Please be fucking afraid, girl.

She’d get off. They all got off with him. He didn’t care, didn’t try to get them there.

He only wanted his noise to go away.

To make his fucked-up addiction disappear.

Because what good could come of it? The little bit of a thing was wrong in every eventuality.

They were never friends.

Never would be friends.

But he would protect her with his life. Even from himself.

There was going to be a day that Rider nonchalantly dropped into a conversation that Gia was getting married to some dickbrain banker or lawyer, his chest hurt letting that thought in, but he needed to let it in, to sink in deep into his wounds so he could accept its inevitability, even as he pulled that redhaired bitch by the wrist to a quiet room down the corridor, tuning out her harping talk, he could give a fuck what her name was. She had a pussy and she stank of fear, she had the winning lotto ticket.

He was too busy thinking of his little bit of a thing being fucked by an ordinary man who would laugh and smile with her.

Fuck him. She wasn’t his.

He hated Louisiana and the goddamn heat. Now he hated a figment guy who one day Hawk would have to try really, really fucking hard not to stalk, and prey on and kill him ten different ways.

He goddamn hated his obsession.

It was the most vicious blade and he was bleeding out.