Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(11)

Blood that Hawk was going to have to spill. Merry f*cking Christmas to him. His only saving grace was that after this he was headed to San Francisco for the holidays, to see his boy . . . and Dorothy.

As if on cue, he felt his cell phone vibrate against his chest. Reaching inside his cut, he pulled out his phone and found a text message from Dorothy.

Christopher is wondering when you’re getting in.

Although he should have been used to this by now, Dorothy’s refusal to acknowledge that they’d once shared something more than just their child, he found himself frowning.

All her texts, all their phone conversations, even their face-to-face time, were only ever about Christopher. Even after all this time had passed, she was still going well out of her way to ensure he didn’t get the wrong idea.

What he wouldn’t give to wrap his hand around her f*cking throat and give her a nice, hearty shake. Despite what she thought, he wasn’t a f*cking moron clinging to some childish hope that someday she’d realize she still had feelings for him. Maybe way back when, when she’d been coming to him desperate for something Jase could never give her. Freedom. The freedom to let go in a way she never could with Jase, because with him she hadn’t been trying to win a prize, she hadn’t had the same feelings of inadequacy, the constant looming threat that if she wasn’t as good as Chrissy was, as beautiful, as giving and loving, that Jase would leave her.

All that pent-up misery, all that desperation, all that hidden anger and harbored resentment, he’d gotten the brunt of all of it. Once Dorothy had realized he was her safe place, she’d never held back on the crying and the yelling, and she’d taken it all out on him . . . him and his cock.

But that was then and this was now, and things weren’t the same. Not even close.

He’d gotten her message loud and f*cking clear about who she really wanted on the day she’d told him the baby inside her was Jase’s, even though they’d both known she was a damn liar.

Yeah, he’d f*cked that all up. Taking what hadn’t been his to take, forcing her hand, essentially blackmailing her into his bed, none of it had been the right way to woo a woman you wanted. But even now, older and wiser, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret not even one f*cking second of it. Not when it had resulted in the birth of his son. Hearing that little boy call him Daddy, seeing those big eyes looking up to him for . . . everything. No f*cking way would he ever regret a single moment that had led to Christopher. Not a chance in hell.

Still, he’d always kept his feelings, his yearnings, and his disappointments to himself. Well, other than announcing to all and sundry that Christopher was most certainly his. After finding out Dorothy had been shot, not knowing whether she was going to live or die, there was no way in hell he was going to let a lying, cheating piece of shit like Jase Brady raise his kid.

A good thing, too, seeing as Jase couldn’t seem to do much of anything since then other than lift a bottle to his mouth.

I’ll be there tomorrow.

As he typed out his message, he felt his dour mood begin to lighten. Shit might be in permanent stasis between him and the woman he loved, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thankful for the time he got to spend with them in some semblance of a family. When you lived on the road, you learned to appreciate the little things.

“Brother.”

Hawk recognized Hammer’s voice before the man himself walked out from the shadows. Hammer was president of the Las Vegas chapter of the Hell’s Horsemen motorcycle club. With a shaved head, sparrow beard, and built like a tank, Hammer was a fearsome-looking beast of a man. He’d gotten his nickname after beating a man into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp with nothing but his own two fists.

If Hawk hadn’t been secure in his own reflexes, in knowing his trigger finger was as steady as a rock and he hit dead center hit every damn time, he might have feared the man.

“You look like hell,” Hammer said, approaching him. “Long ride?”

Sliding his phone back into his cut, Hawk shook his head. “Long f*ckin’ life, brother. Long f*ckin’ life.”

Hammer snorted. “I hear that. My old lady’s been givin’ me hell. Knocked up a patch whore, bitch is demandin’ money . . . I’m about ready to start eatin’ concrete outta here.”

“Been runnin’ 66 for a grip now,” Hawk said, his gaze dropping to his saddlebags. Inside lay his Miles City rocker, the patch he’d given up when he’d gone nomad. “Shit’s startin’ to wear on me.”

Hammer’s expression turned grim. “I got you, brother. I like to bitch, but ain’t nowhere I’d rather be than here with my boys. You do this job, you goin’ home?”

Hawk shrugged. He didn’t have a home, not really. As much love as he had for Deuce and the club, after everything that had happened, he wasn’t able to sit in one place for too long. He’d start dwelling on the countless things he couldn’t change, wishing for things he couldn’t have. The road was a better place for him. Running jobs across the country, keeping him busy, too busy to sit down and think about how jacked up his life really was. But Hawk had never talked about his problems, or worse, his feelings, with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start now, especially with an * like Hammer.

“So this shit’s for real then?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the broken-down warehouse. “Z’s really inside?”