Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(36)
“Fuck off!”
“Shut your f*ckin’ mouths,” Deuce growled. “That crazy bitch you’re talkin’ shit about cleaned my boy the f*ck up.”
“She’s still crazy. Straight-up f*ckin’ nuts.”
Hawk wanted to laugh but he still couldn’t see, probably because his eyes were swollen shut. Now that he was warming up, the pain in his leg was starting to burn something fierce, causing his thoughts to muddle.
Then he felt something warm press against his cheek. Maybe a hand.
“You hang the f*ck on, you feel me, brother?” Deuce said, his voice low. “You got an unhappy redhead who drove through the blizzard from hell just to see where the f*ck you were. She’s waitin’ on your ass, probably gonna bitch you the f*ck out for lyin’ to her all these years. I’m givin’ you permission to put that blame on me like all the rest of these motherf*ckers are doin’.”
For a moment, Hawk was confused, thinking Deuce was referring to Tegen, and Tegen being pissed at him wasn’t anything new.
But then he heard Ripper mutter, “She’s probably just pissed findin’ out that little leprechaun of hers is actually a Russki, and property of the Red Mafia.”
Suddenly Hawk realized it wasn’t Tegen that Deuce was talking about, it was Dorothy.
So, she’d come back to Montana for him?
And she knew everything now? And she was upset?
Upset meant she gave a f*ck.
“What?” Ripper said, sounding affronted. “No one thought that was funny? Dude, that was funny. Cox would have thought that was funny. Dirty? No? Fuck, bein’ clean has made you lame as f*ck.”
“It was kinda funny,” Mick said. “But not really.”
“Jesus Christ,” Deuce muttered. “Just shut the f*ck up. All of you.”
And if Hawk could have grinned, he sure as shit would have.
? ? ?
Hours passed. Days? Weeks? He didn’t know.
Hawk was in and out of consciousness, sometimes shivering with unbearable cold, sometimes burning with stifling heat and sweating profusely, and sometimes both. He only caught snippets of conversations, purposely hushed voices accompanied by the sound of footsteps. He saw flashes of blurred faces, and every so often he’d feel a touch, sometimes excruciatingly painful, radiating up his leg, spreading higher and higher, gripping his chest like a vice until he’d pass out from the pain. Other times it was gentle, something soft and cool on his skin, fingertips fluttering up and down his arms, hands cupping his cheeks. A kiss pressed against his lips.
During his small moments of clarity, he tried to sort through the scrambled mess of his mind to pinpoint Dorothy, whether or not she was really here, that he hadn’t just imagined Deuce mentioning her presence. He would jerk at the sound of a soft feminine voice, or when he thought he saw a flash of red, only to realize himself unable to move, unable to blink through the cloudy haze, or speak anything resembling coherent words.
And through it all Hawk dreamed. He dreamed of his childhood and having the world at his fingertips, thinking his father was a king, thinking that someday he would be a king as well. And then of the death of his father, and his time spent on the streets, afraid for his life. He dreamed of Deuce, the night the man had found him, of the club and the boys. And then he dreamed of meeting Dorothy for the first time, her long red hair and bright green eyes, and how they’d both come together as a means of escaping the cruel reality of their lives, but how it had backfired on both of them.
He dreamed of the selfish young man he’d once been, thinking that the world had owed him something in return for all he’d lost.
And he dreamed of Christopher, who in a lot of ways had been the means to his end. The end of the man he’d once been, and the start of the man he’d become. A better man. A father.
He dreamed of the way things had been and the way thing were now, and he dreamed of how he wished they could have been, how he wished they were now.
Until the fever finally broke and he woke the f*ck up.
? ? ?
Blinking through the semidarkness, Hawk tried to focus on his surroundings, unable to discern a damn thing other than he was in a warm and comfortable bed, although he was anything but comfortable.
His throat was painfully dry, his head was throbbing, and his leg twice as bad. He tried to sit up and felt his leg scream in protest. Okay. Scratch that. Instead, he reached out with both hands, fumbling at his sides. His left hand found a tabletop and his right . . .
Damn.
He squeezed the soft flesh once, twice, and smiled. Yeah, sure as shit, that was definitely a breast. He reached farther, squeezing the other, his smile growing wider. He knew these breasts, had once been well acquainted with them. Perfect-sized mounds of malleable flesh covered in freckles, topped with nipples just a little too large. Nipples that would shrivel and peak beneath his fingers and mouth.
Despite his injuries, Hawk felt his body responding to his thoughts. He was considering trying to maneuver himself into a more accessible position to continue touching her when Dorothy let out a small sigh. He snatched his hand away just as she rolled toward him and into his body. Her leg nudged against his injured one, sending pain shooting through him. He breathed through it, not really caring about the pain, just wanting her to keep touching him. He’d been so long without her, without the touch of another human being that actually gave two shits about him, that whatever pain he was in didn’t f*cking matter. As long as she kept touching him.