Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (The Hawke Family Book 1) (14 page)

No texts.

No voicemails.

No videos.

None from Savage, at least.

For the millionth time, I open our text conversation. The last one we had, the Friday before my disastrous performance at his condo. He was still in San Diego, and I was still blissfully unaware of the fact that a relationship with him would be, well, a little complicated.

> I can’t wait to get my hands on you. <

< I can’t wait to have your hands on me. >

Shit. He was good with his hands, so damn good.

A shudder rolls through my body as I remember his hand blazing a trail of fire drifting up my thigh. His fingers sliding my panties to the side and gliding through my slick folds…

I have to clamp my thighs together to help ease my throbbing clit at the memory.

Damn.

I quickly close out the message screen and check my emails. Doug—wanting to know when I will be sending him the notes from today. My mom—wondering when I’m going to visit her. They can wait. I slip my phone back in my purse and refocus on the rain outside as we finally start moving again.

Five minutes later, I’m slamming the cab door outside my hotel and racing in through the rain. As I walk through the lobby, I focus on the bar. Any other trip, I would be spending my night in there, hoping to meet a guy who would bang the ever-loving shit out of me in his room or mine, and not even bother asking my name.

Hot.

Rough.

Hard.

That’s what I need.

I am hornier than a goddamn teenager and I have absolutely zero desire to find my usual business trip bang buddy. I wasn’t even able to seal the deal when Caroline and I went out to the club the night before I left for this trip. I tried—boy, did I fucking try, anything to forget about the Savage situation—but when the beautiful man I had been dancing with all night kissed me, it felt all wrong and I couldn’t suppress the rotten feeling in my stomach.

After slipping into the empty elevator, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, trying desperately to let the synthesized version of some pop song being piped through the speakers lull me into some semblance of relaxed.

Just as the ding sounds, alerting me I’ve reached my floor, a familiar ringtone sounds in my purse. Caroline. What the hell does she want?

I dig in my purse for my phone and stumble out of the car, making my way down the brightly lit hallway toward my room.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask while I pull my keycard from my wallet and slide it in the door.

“Hey, girl, what are you up to?”

“Nothing.” I toss my bag onto the chair next to the small table in my room and kick off my heels before dropping back onto my bed. “I just got back to my room.”

“Are you alone?”

Fuck.

I hate that she knows me so well. “Yes, I am alone, thank you very much.”

“Well, that’s a first.”

“Bitch.”

She chuckles and I flip on the television, praying there is something on tonight I can completely lose myself in. No more chick-flicks. My heart can’t handle it anymore.

“Does this mean you’ve made a decision about Savage?”

I let out a deep sigh. “No, it doesn’t. It just means I didn’t want company tonight. It has nothing to do with Savage. He’s not the only thing I think about, you know.”

“Oh really? So, you aren’t interested in the single white rose that appeared on your desk today or what the nice little card attached says?”

I bolt upright.

Savage. It has to be from him. “Bitch, don’t fuck with me. What does it say?”

She laughs and I hear the brief rustle of paper. “Danika, I’m sorry about the way I handled things. I don’t blame you for running. I hope you are all right. Please, take care of yourself. S.”

“Shit.” I turn on speakerphone and drop my face into my palms.

“Shit, indeed. Girl, this guy has it bad for you, but he’s still willing to let you go. The ball is in your court. You won’t be able to hide from it in D.C. any longer. You’re coming home tomorrow and need to put this poor man out of his misery.”

“I know.”

I need to put myself out of my misery, too. This week has been agonizingly painful, and not just because I’m hornier than I’ve ever been in my life. I never thought I’d have to make a decision like this and five days of thinking haven’t gotten me anywhere closer to final judgment.

It can’t go on any longer. It’s not fair to me, and it’s especially not fair to Savage.

“You sent her more flowers?” Gabe quirks his eyebrow at me and his lips twist into a grimace.

“Yes, well, one flower.” Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my arms and twist, trying to loosen up to the tight muscles after this morning’s workout.

“You think that was a good idea?”

“At this point? I don’t think it matters much what I do. What did you come in here for, anyway?”

He drops down into a chair across from me and leans forward, his forearms on his knees. “You aren’t going to like it.”

“Oh good, bad news. My favorite kind.”

Nothing has been going right this week. Ever since I returned from San Diego, anything and everything that
could
go wrong
has
gone wrong.

First, my epic crash and burn with Danika. I’m still trying to recover from it but find myself pathetically reviewing our old text conversations and pining like that’s going to change anything about this shit situation.

Then, one of the dancers got chicken pox from her kid and managed to infect three of the other girls, leaving us short-staffed during our peak season. Spring means weddings, and weddings mean bachelor parties.

And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the manager at one of my other bar’s up and disappeared, taking over ten grand out of the safe when he left. So, I got to spend two days with the police and trying to hire another manager. “What is it? Just lay it on me.”

“We are almost out of beer.”

“What do you mean we’re almost out of beer? There should have been a delivery this morning.” I open the supply management program on my computer and scroll through it. “We ordered enough to last two weeks and it was supposed to be delivered before noon today.”

Gabe leans back and shrugs. “Maybe it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t. Byron and I have tried calling the supplier all afternoon, and we can’t seem to get a straight answer from them about where the shipment is or when it’s coming.”

This has to be some kind of fucking joke.

“Jesus, we have four bachelor parties tonight and five tomorrow.”

“I know,” he says, eyeing me speculatively. “You know what you need to do.”

“No. Hell no.” I shake my head and rack my brain for
any
alternative.

“Savage, come on. You need to call Dom.”

“I said, hell no.” I slam my palms against my desk. “I’m not going to owe that guy any more favors.”

Never again.

“I get it, I do, but he’s also the only one who is going to be able to get us what we need before the tidal wave hits tonight.”

Dom Abello is the last person in the world I want to call for help.

My unfortunate connection with him was forged even before I was born. My mom grew up on the same street, and my dad went to school with him. Then, years later, my father did some “work” for him from time to time.

Growing up, he had always just been Uncle Dom to us. My mother either didn’t know or chose to ignore what he did for a living—the murders, drug dealing, corruption. None of it was ever mentioned or acknowledged in my home. I never really understood who or what he was until I was well into high school. By then, it was hard to untangle myself from him due to the family connection.

I’ve tried my best to steer clear of Uncle Dom and his associates, but when I couldn’t get financing for the first bar after college, he helped me out. The problem is, getting help from Uncle Dom always comes with a price.

Almost a decade later, I’m still paying for his “generosity” with favors I would rather not do.

“Shit.” I drop my head into my hands and groan in frustration. “Why can’t anything go right this week?”

“I don’t know, man. One of us really must have done something to piss off the big guy upstairs.”

No shit.

“Well, given your track record, I’m betting it was you.”

He grins and flips me off.

Unfortunately, Gabe’s right. Dom is the only one with connections to get us what we need fast. I reach for the phone and reluctantly dial. It rings three times before I hear him pick up.

“Well, well, well…Mr. Hawke, to what do I owe the pleasure?” There’s a knowledge and a smugness in his voice, knowing I’m calling him because I need something. The man revels in holding things over people, and it frankly wouldn’t surprise me if he had orchestrated the beer shortage just so I would need his help and would owe him a favor. Of course, I will never call him out on it, even if I knew it to be true. I don’t have a death wish.

“Hey, Dom. I’m hoping you can help me out with something. I am in a bit of a jam.”

I can practically see his grin at knowing I’m about to ask for another favor.

“Of course, son, what do you need?”

I despise when he calls me “son.” It is as much an insult to my father as it is to me but I need his help, so I bite back my anger before I answer.

“Beer, lots of it. Our supplier flaked on us this afternoon and we’re almost out with a busy weekend fast approaching.”

Dom laughs on the other end and I can picture him, his head tipped back, smug smile on his face knowing I will owe him big time after this. “No problem, Savage, I can have it there within the hour.”

Relief washes over me at the averted disaster, but my gut clenches at his next words.

“You’ll owe me.”

Being told “you’ll owe me” by a man like Dom Abello doesn’t mean you’ll give him a ride to the airport, or pick up his dry cleaning for him. No, “you’ll owe me” from a man like that might as well mean “I own you.” And, I’ve already heard it way too many times to be comfortable with it.

“I know, Dom. I always do. Thanks.” I drop the phone into its cradle and return my gaze to Gabe.

He chuckles and grins at me. “You just sold your soul to the devil for some beer.”

Asshole.

“No, I sold my soul to the devil for our business, which just happens to require beer.”

He laughs, tossing his head back before he stands and walks toward the door. “I’ll make sure the guys are ready for the delivery. You need anything else?”

Lots of things.

“Not that you can give me.”

I stare at the computer screen and take another long drink of my bourbon. It is almost 9:00 p.m., and things have gone surprisingly smooth for a Saturday night. Usually, there’s at least one asshole trying to climb the stage to get to the girls, or one inappropriately grabbing at the waitresses. But tonight, things are quiet. It certainly makes my job a lot easier.