2. Hawk

CHAPTER 2

HAWK

I stroll down the familiar, cracked sidewalk, the one that's etched into the back of my skull, a roadmap of a childhood I can no longer claim. The air is filled with the scent of pine and dirt, a Northern California perfume that's as much a part of me as the mixed blood in my veins.

Why am I here?

Why am I back if I'm on assignment?

My feet carry me to the weathered front door of the house I once called home. It hangs ajar, creaking softly in the morning breeze, inviting yet foreboding.

I push the door open with a hesitant touch, stepping into the dimness.

"Ma?" My voice is a ghost in the stillness.

She appears like an apparition from the hallway, her smile just as tired as I remember it. "Dallas," she breathes, and for a moment, I'm that lost boy again, searching for solace in her embrace.

"Hey, Ma," I say, my heart reaching for her across the expanse of time and secrets. I haven't seen her in almost two years—since before my previous assignment. It was a brief weekend in San Francisco. The kind she soon won't enjoy anymore because of all the things age does to her body.

"Hey, Ma," I repeat, unsure of what else to say. I can't talk about my work. She knows it.

But her smile falters, crumbling like dry earth. She studies me, really looks, and her next words are a dagger. "What have you done with my son?"

The walls close in, and I feel her question wrapping like chains around my neck. Me, Dallas Bradley, the prodigal son, lost and found and lost again.

"What do you mean, Ma?" I ask as panic claws at my insides. And when I look at her, my mother's gaze slips down to my hands.

I follow her line of sight, pulse wild.

There's blood.

It's on my hands, a crimson stain that won't wash off.

My panic grows, ripping through the veil of sleep. I'm up, drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for air that won't fill my lungs fast enough. My heartbeat is a drumbeat of fear.

The nightmare—way too vivid—lingers while I sit up, pressing my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the images now seared into my mind.

Guilt.

Need for repentance.

They gnaw at my conscience, pulling me under, drowning me in what-ifs and should-haves. Each inhale is a battle.

I turn, my breath still ragged, and face the man who's responsible for this change. Responsible for Hawk's actions.

Isaac lies next to me, a pale, naked form on the tangled sheets. I expect him to be asleep but he is not. His brown eyes, usually smoldering with unreadable emotions, now hold a flicker of concern that he tries to mask but to no avail.

"Hey," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep or worry—maybe both. "What's wrong?" He touches my back, rubs it gently with his palm.

"Nothing," I lie smoothly, too smoothly for a man who just crawled back from the edge of his own nervous breakdown.

He doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way his gaze sharpens but he lets it go. I guess it's another secret added to the vault of secrets between us.

I reach for my phone, its screen a cold glow in the dark. The numbers glare back at me. 5:59 AM. The dawn is as unwelcome as the truth I'm trying to come to terms with. Time doesn't heal; it just ticks forward, indifferent to the mess it leaves behind.

"You're sure you're good?" Isaac checks again after a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

I nod.

"You want anything?"

I look at him. "Like what? Coffee?"

"Well, that," he supplies, then adds, "I was thinking of something in lines of another car…"

At that, I laugh. "I like my car. It's brand-new."

"Or a casino."

"You're offering to buy me a casino?"

"An island?" he asks with an absolute poker face.

"Sounds interesting. What am I gonna do with it?"

He doesn't respond for a heartbeat, his eyes glance up to the ceiling. "Hide away from the world."

"Would you come along?"

"I would if I could."

Then, a knock shatters the bubble of us—loud, insistent, demanding. It's the sound of reality pounding at the door, reminding us that these moments are nothing but a house of cards, ready to collapse.

"Hey, Hawk! Wake up!" Jeremy's voice is a bullet through the quiet.

"Shit." Isaac's body tenses beside me. Our relationship—or whatever it is that we have going on—is not meant for daylight scrutiny.

I throw off the sheets and the room spins for a moment, a carousel of panic and half-formed plans. Isaac's expression is unreadable as he bolts from the bed.

"Hide," I hiss at him. Fear, sharp and metallic, coats my tongue as Isaac rushes to the bathroom.

"Coming." My feet pad across the carpet. My fingers twitch before gripping the knob, twisting the present back into place—one where Isaac doesn't exist within these walls. Where he's the employer and I'm the employee.

"What the fuck took you this long?" Jeremy growls as I swing the door open. "You're jerking off or something?" He's an imposing silhouette against the semi-dark hallway, his eyes narrow slits of impatience.

"It's six in the morning, man."

"Well, if you want to work nine to five, go to the fucking bank," he grits out. "Need you downstairs. Boss wants us moving. Thirty minutes and we're out to pack the shit." His words are clipped, efficient. A conveyor belt delivering orders without room for questions.

"I'll be there," I reply curtly.

Jeremy's gaze lingers on the space behind me, as if searching, dusting over the surface for anything amiss. It's a look that knows too much—has seen too much—and trusts nothing at face value.

Then he silently turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving me standing in the doorway in my boxers and nothing else.

A second later, I hear Isaac's footsteps behind me. I close the door and shift my attention to the naked man in my room, my eyes catching the tail end of shadows fleeing from his form as he steps into the scattered morning light now slowly filling the room.

"You should have told me you had something planned this early," I say. "You know how he'll be if he finds out."

"Sorry. I didn't think J would care to come and get you personally," Isaac replies. "Or even care to include you to pack the merch."

I draw a deep breath. This is becoming dangerous. Jeremy is a drama queen when it comes to Hawk.

"What are we doing here, Isaac?" The question slips out like a coin tossed into a well without a wish attached.

Isaac pauses, his brows furrowing like he's translating my words from a foreign language. "What do you mean?"

I rake a hand through my hair, remembering how it felt when it was shorter, when I looked like Dallas, not Hawk. "This." I gesture between us, the air suddenly tough with things unsaid. "Us. What is this?"

"Stop overthinking it," he replies, the edge of his mouth quirks but it's not a smirk, more of a scowl. "That's what you're doing."

And immediately, the room becomes a pressure chamber, every square inch of it. Isaac moves to his scattered clothes, his muscles shifting like plates of armor beneath his skin—a defense against the world, or maybe against me, against the questions I shouldn't be asking. The lion on his upper back glares at me as if it's ready to materialize and devour me.

My gaze continues to follow Isaac, drawn to the way he slips into his boxers and slacks—a magic trick where danger dresses itself in expensive fabric. Dark, messy hair falls like a curtain over his brow.

He buttons his shirt, a slow dance of fingers and silk, and I'm caught between the past and the present warring within me. There's no space for hope in this hotel room, only the taste of ridiculously good sex and regret.

"I gotta go," Isaac says, heading for the door. He pauses to kiss me on the lips. "I'll see you later."

And then he leaves.

I'm slumped in the passenger seat of Nicole's car, my body's shivering even though the night is warm. The interior is cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of the dashboard lights.

I can feel Nicole's gaze pierce through me as she speaks. "What is it that I hear you tried to get info from Robbie?" she asks, her tone laced with disapproval.

I attempt not to shift in my seat, but discomfort is chewing at my stomach. "Listen, I'm walking a tightrope here," I start, my hands balling into fists. I meet her stare head-on. "I do what I have to do to pull in what we need." The lie tastes like soured milk in my mouth.

"Reaching out to another agent..." She leans in my direction, her stare never wavering. "...can blow both your covers. You know this."

"I know." My words are heavy with the weight I carry every day. "But when it comes to intel–"

"Speaking of which," she interrupts, the question already loaded in her proverbial barrel, "the next delivery of guns—how close are you?"

"Close," I lie through my teeth. "You're well aware the contact on the rez is dead. That throws a wrench in the works, but I'll figure out another angle."

"Too bad."

"Can you find out who did it? Any leads?" I have an ulterior motive here. If I know who killed EJ, I'll have a better idea of who could be wanting to fuck up our operation and our relationship with Toro.

"The Bureau won't throw its resources on some dead guy, Dallas," Nicole replies. "I'm sure you understand how things are."

Disappointment clutches my chest.

"Isaac's people, they're... they're planning something else."

"Fine."

Sweat beads on the back of my neck as I feel her reading me, her hazel eyes trying to peel back the layers of deceit.

"Dallas," she says, and there's steel in her voice now. "You've got two weeks. If we don't see substantial intel by then, we're going to have to pull you out. I think they are onto us and we just can't risk it at this point."

"Two weeks," I echo, heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "You'll have your intel." Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

"Be careful, Bradley," Nicole says as I climb out of her car.

Outside, the sky is a bruise, colors bleeding out until everything is gray. I step into the unrelenting Nevada heat, feeling the press of invisible walls closing in on me. Two weeks. In this game of secrets and high stakes time is the enemy, and it's running out fast.

And the answer to my question—what do I do next?—is obvious. I give up Isaac.

But my heart can't go through with it.