Free Caught (Prequel to Hawk) (Sex and Bullets) by Jo Raven Page B
Authors: Jo Raven
guy.”
“What the hell?” I flinch at the anger in his voice. It’s hot and sharp and intense, like him. “You sleeping with him?”
“No. I’m not.” I draw a breath, and blurt, “not yet.”
The silence that follows is rolled in broken glass. Suddenly I’m sorry. So sorry for what I said—and it’s not even true, because I don’t want to sleep with Norman, or anyone else but Hawk.
Isn’t it insane?
“Why?” he asks, his voice like gravel.
I wince. “You keep vanishing. You don’t tell me anything. We’re not really together, Hawk.”
Another silence.
“I thought we had an agreement,” he finally says. “From the beginning, it was all on the table. I haven’t changed the rules.”
No, he hasn’t. “Hawk…”
“Fuck, no. Not letting this happen. I’m coming to pick you up,” he says. “I’ll be there in two minutes. Be ready.”
***
He’s already parked outside my building when I come out, in my coat, clutching my purse. I honestly don’t know why I’m not fighting this.
Honestly don’t know if I ever could. From the very first moment, he caught me. Neither of us admit it, but I’m his.
Maybe I should move to Alaska. Or Europe. Or Mongolia. Far enough the sound of his voice can’t reach me and lure me back to him. Fighting against the pull is like trying to swim upstream, to run upslope.
Not sure I’m strong enough.
Not sure what I’m feeling, what to call the emotions he brings out in me, this worry, this need, his warmth, this sadness.
Don’t know what to do with them. With someone who doesn’t feel anything about me, and yet won’t let go.
He gives me a wide grin as I approach his bike, and I can’t read his face.
“Get on,” he says, and I climb up behind him. “Hold on tight.”
Always. He’s a wild ride. Every single time.
I pull on the extra helmet and slip my arms around his waist, let him rev the engine and dive back into traffic. Weave through the city, not really caring where he’s taking me, lost in the feel of his muscled back pressed to my front, his hard abs under my hands.
Just one week apart and I missed this.
Him.
This is bad.
We ride for a long time. He doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind as he drives down avenues and through quiet neighborhoods, and I’m content to cling to him and let the thoughts flow out of my mind, leaving a pleasant numbness behind.
Strangely, he sometimes glances sideways, or over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be following us.
And then I know I’ve been watching too much TV with Dorothy lately. I mean, why would he think we have a tail? What could he possibly have done for such a possibility? The paparazzi rarely, if ever, manage to catch a glimpse of him.
We end up far from the town center, as far as I can tell, and ride through an open gate into an obviously private property.
Trees line the paved driveway. A mansion looms in the distance.
He turns onto a path between trees and bushes, the headlights of the bike the only illumination, and comes to a stop beside a pond with floating water lilies.
He kicks the stand into place and stays there for a long moment. The quiet seeps in. A bird trills in a bush.
It’s not as cold as I expected. There’s a promise of rain in the air, which is heavy with the scent of some aromatic herb and the freshness of the pond.
He takes off his helmet, but he still doesn’t make any other move.
“I wasn’t supposed to meet you,” he whispers, and I wonder for a moment if I imagined the words.
“Hawk?” What does he mean? Meet me today? Or ever?
He shakes his head. “It’s peaceful here.”
Carefully, I slide off the bike and take off my helmet. There’s a wooden bench beside us and I place it there. “Is this place yours?”
“Belongs to an uncle of mine.”
The
“What the hell?” I flinch at the anger in his voice. It’s hot and sharp and intense, like him. “You sleeping with him?”
“No. I’m not.” I draw a breath, and blurt, “not yet.”
The silence that follows is rolled in broken glass. Suddenly I’m sorry. So sorry for what I said—and it’s not even true, because I don’t want to sleep with Norman, or anyone else but Hawk.
Isn’t it insane?
“Why?” he asks, his voice like gravel.
I wince. “You keep vanishing. You don’t tell me anything. We’re not really together, Hawk.”
Another silence.
“I thought we had an agreement,” he finally says. “From the beginning, it was all on the table. I haven’t changed the rules.”
No, he hasn’t. “Hawk…”
“Fuck, no. Not letting this happen. I’m coming to pick you up,” he says. “I’ll be there in two minutes. Be ready.”
***
He’s already parked outside my building when I come out, in my coat, clutching my purse. I honestly don’t know why I’m not fighting this.
Honestly don’t know if I ever could. From the very first moment, he caught me. Neither of us admit it, but I’m his.
Maybe I should move to Alaska. Or Europe. Or Mongolia. Far enough the sound of his voice can’t reach me and lure me back to him. Fighting against the pull is like trying to swim upstream, to run upslope.
Not sure I’m strong enough.
Not sure what I’m feeling, what to call the emotions he brings out in me, this worry, this need, his warmth, this sadness.
Don’t know what to do with them. With someone who doesn’t feel anything about me, and yet won’t let go.
He gives me a wide grin as I approach his bike, and I can’t read his face.
“Get on,” he says, and I climb up behind him. “Hold on tight.”
Always. He’s a wild ride. Every single time.
I pull on the extra helmet and slip my arms around his waist, let him rev the engine and dive back into traffic. Weave through the city, not really caring where he’s taking me, lost in the feel of his muscled back pressed to my front, his hard abs under my hands.
Just one week apart and I missed this.
Him.
This is bad.
We ride for a long time. He doesn’t seem to have a destination in mind as he drives down avenues and through quiet neighborhoods, and I’m content to cling to him and let the thoughts flow out of my mind, leaving a pleasant numbness behind.
Strangely, he sometimes glances sideways, or over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be following us.
And then I know I’ve been watching too much TV with Dorothy lately. I mean, why would he think we have a tail? What could he possibly have done for such a possibility? The paparazzi rarely, if ever, manage to catch a glimpse of him.
We end up far from the town center, as far as I can tell, and ride through an open gate into an obviously private property.
Trees line the paved driveway. A mansion looms in the distance.
He turns onto a path between trees and bushes, the headlights of the bike the only illumination, and comes to a stop beside a pond with floating water lilies.
He kicks the stand into place and stays there for a long moment. The quiet seeps in. A bird trills in a bush.
It’s not as cold as I expected. There’s a promise of rain in the air, which is heavy with the scent of some aromatic herb and the freshness of the pond.
He takes off his helmet, but he still doesn’t make any other move.
“I wasn’t supposed to meet you,” he whispers, and I wonder for a moment if I imagined the words.
“Hawk?” What does he mean? Meet me today? Or ever?
He shakes his head. “It’s peaceful here.”
Carefully, I slide off the bike and take off my helmet. There’s a wooden bench beside us and I place it there. “Is this place yours?”
“Belongs to an uncle of mine.”
The
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