16. Isaac

CHAPTER 16

ISAAC

A smothering blanket of cigarette smoke saturates the room, the white haze mixing with the tension in the air. We've gathered upstairs in a private area after the club has closed for the night, trying to make sense of the ambush that left us bloodied and bruised. Everyone is on edge and no one wants to go home. Some of the guys already called their girlfriends and asked them to go somewhere safe. Jessica’s hunkering down at The Aria for the night, courtesy of Jeremy’s savvy booking. Truth be told, I’m not sure she’s going to be safe at Eclipse.

She can’t even use the gun. Jeremy never allowed it.

The low hum of conversation buzzes around me, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the cold fury simmering beneath my skin.

"Russians," Ricky growls, slamming his fist onto the table littered with guns and ammo. "They're the only ones who knew about the meeting." His eyes are fierce, a fire burning within them, seeking retribution.

Hector's brows knit together as he leans back in his chair, considering the words. "Could be the Armenians too," he suggests cautiously. "They knew about the meeting as well. They insisted on it."

"Maybe it was all a setup," Marco interjects, his voice calm but filled with urgency. "From the fucking get-go. Someone wants our gun trade with Toro and saw an opportunity."

"Got your money riding on Russians and Armenians being ‘someone’, have you?" Jeremy poses with one eye focused on methodically cycling bullets in and out of his Glock—an unsettling rhythm echoing throughout the evening.

I frown at the thought, not entirely convinced. It seems like a strange way to go about eliminating me, but I can't dismiss the possibility entirely.

Glancing around the room, I see the same uncertainty mirrored in the faces of my crew. Some are itching for revenge, others want to be cautious. When my gaze lands on Hawk, I can see that he’s not really in the mood to participate. He’s pale and quiet and possibly high on whatever pills Doc gave him earlier when he came to patch up his arm.

"Look," Flynn pipes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "We need answers. And we need 'em fast. Whoever did this ain't gonna stop now."

"Agreed," I say. "Let’s put feelers out on the street, gather any information we can. Keep a close eye on anyone and anything. For now, though, we lay low."

A collective murmur of assent fills the room, but I can tell some are still restless, eager for action. It's clear that this family has been shaken by this attack. In the end, the weight of the decision is mine alone to bear.

For a moment there—and this hasn’t happened to me since my first year in prison—I feel lost. I’m not sure where we go from here and how we protect the ones that depend on us if we are scattered all over this fucking city and Jaheim is locked up.

"Hey, Seven!" I call out, completely abandoning my mask of cool for tonight. "We still have that bottle of Yamazaki stashed away?"

"Boss!" Seven barks out. "No one’s touching that bottle with a ten-foot pole unless they’ve got suicidal tendencies."

The response prompts a burst of laughter and it seems to help to release the tension a little.

"Get it over here," I tell him.

"You sure?" he inquires dubiously.

"Positive."

"That's forty grand down the drainpipe, boss man!" Hector croaks from where he's lounging on an armchair, ashtray balanced precariously on his knee.

"Tonight is the night, man," I say insistently, my eyes briefly resting on Hawk.

When Rick uncorks the whiskey and begins to pour shots with practiced ease, Marco and Hector politely refuse their shares.

"Someone’s gotta stay sober, boss," Marco murmurs when I nudge a glass toward him.

I nod. I understand what he means. He doesn’t say it out loud but we could get ambushed here too. It’s not unheard of.

As shots tumble down countless throats around me chasing away remnants of unease, compliments about the rich whiskey quickly fill up vacant conversational spaces.

Is it good?

Beats me—it was gifted by a business acquaintance halfway across the world in Asia—never found an appropriate occasion to break out such an expensive strain till this very moment.

Letting loose isn’t usually my thing but considering how topsy-turvy life has been lately—I welcome anything that would provide brief respite. The scalding liquid fire is often just that. A buffer against the internal mayhem gnawing at my gut.

After my second shot, I allow myself to steal another glance at Hawk, who sits silently in the corner, white-faced and exhausted from blood loss, nursing his own shot like it’s a pint of beer and not an ounce of whiskey.

Deep down I know I should keep my distance, avoid letting my guys think I'm playing favorites, especially since he’s new. But I admit it's hard not to be drawn to him. There’s something about Cody "Hawk" Smith that makes my insides twist up whenever we’re in the same room.

It’s fucking annoying.

Sadly I can’t control it.

"Isaac," Jeremy hisses out, sidling up to me as if he just read my mind. "We never had problems like this before he came along." He nods his head in Hawk's direction.

"I think that’s a stretch."

"He’s a snitch. I can feel it in my gut," Jeremy presses, his whisper low and rusty.

"He saved my life," I reply sharply, unwilling to entertain the idea that Hawk could be involved in today’s snafu back at the meetup place. "Now drop it."

I turn away from Jeremy, trying to focus on the conversation around me. But my eyes keep drifting back to Hawk. And as the whiskey starts to take hold of me, my thoughts suddenly become consumed by him.

"Hit me," I ask Ricky, sliding my empty glass in his direction. He's sharing the last trickles of Japanese whiskey among those brave enough—or foolish enough—to take another round.

"Sure thing, boss." The remaining amber liquid cascades into my glass.

All words desert me as I tilt the glass and let it burn down my throat in one swift action, each sip erasing remnants of the past memories haunting me.

Then an unopened bottle of Patron materializes before me.

I know all too well that mixing under this emotional deluge is a cataclysm waiting to happen. Yet tonight... Tonight calls for some risky business on account of shoving down reality far deep where it could no longer reach up and claw at my heartstrings.

Marco cracks a joke and the mood shifts, becoming more relaxed as we all try to forget, if only for a few moments, the danger that hangs over our heads like the blade of a guillotine.

Fuzzy clouds begin to fill my head soon.

"Another round?" Ricky asks.

Everyone nods.

I can't bring myself to refuse the offer.

"Boss," Jeremy’s voice says somewhere off to the side. "I think you’ve had enough."

"Not yet," I tell him sharply and gulp down another shot.

My gaze flickers back to Hawk. There's a strange sense of isolation surrounding him, as if he's both physically and emotionally detached from the rest of us. I blame it on his personality and today’s near-death experience. And despite my resolve to maintain my distance, I can’t stop wondering what it would be like to breach that barrier, to know him the way I know the rest of my crew.

Why the fuck would you need to get close to him, Isaac? my inner voice of reason says in my head.

And I realize that I have no clue.

"Isaac," Ricky says sometimes later when I demand yet another shot. His tone is low and cautious as he leans closer. "You sure you're good for it?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Alright, if you say so," Ricky relents, pouring me another shot. As the whiskey flows, my vision blurs further, and it becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish individual faces amongst the sea of familiar voices.

"Damn, Isaac." Hector chuckles somewhere to my left. "You're really putting them away tonight. You trying to forget today’s clusterfuck?"

"Who isn't?" I retort, the words slipping from my lips before I can fully process them. Frankly, I’m trying to forget the last fifteen years of my life. Everything that happened before prison and most of it that happened during my first years there. And I don’t know if the alcohol is even working. All I’m feeling is… lonely. I can’t talk about it. Can’t scream in frustration. Can’t just pour my heart out in a therapy session to some stranger. I’m to carry all these nightmares with me for the rest of my life, like a shelf in the back of the store filled with old horror movies no one ever wants. The owner of that store is the only one watching them on repeat.

"True enough," Hector agrees, clapping me on the back.

The room swirls dizzyingly around me as laughter and the clink of glasses meld together into a contorted cacophony. I’m dancing a perilous waltz on the brink of self-control, teetering on the edge, my grip on reality slipping with each drink.

"Isaac," Marco interjects, severing the threads to my spiraling thoughts. "You're done for tonight. Let me drive you to your place."

I squint to focus on him. "Wha–" I start to slur out an objection. "No, no. I'm good. Just gonna crash in one of the rooms here." My words come out gibberish, and I realize that I'm far more drunk than I thought. Which is dangerous. I push myself up from the couch with a groan, balancing on unsteady legs like an acrobat.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow at me in disbelief, his arm instinctively reaching out to keep me steady when he thinks that I might topple over any second now. But I wave him off assertively. "Fuck off, man. You’re making me look bad."

"You sure you don’t need help?" Jeremy asks.

"I’m fine," I insist, trying to maintain some semblance of supremacy.

As I stumble toward the door, I hear Ricky ask Hawk if he needs help getting home.

"I'll manage," Hawk replies, his voice steady and focused in contrast to my own. Ah, right. He didn’t drink as much.

For some reason, even in this intoxicated haze, drawing Hawk along appears important to me. The alcohol surging through my veins is orchestrating some illogical puppet show using my body and mind alike as their unsuspecting marionettes, leaving no room for questions.

I glance back at the room stretched behind, a blend of muted light and shadows, and find myself motioning for Hawk to follow me.

"You don't look too sharp," I mumble at him vaguely gesturing somewhere in the general direction of the upper floors of Eclipse. "You can sleep in one of the rooms upstairs."

Hawk hesitates for a moment, his gaze darting around the room as if looking for answers.

"It’s all good, man," Seven tells him. "We sometimes crash here at the hotel. Going back home tonight might not be the best idea."

Hawk’s attention returns to me. He looks at me from across the room with those blue eyes before nodding and following behind and I’m feeling fucking fuzzy on the inside.

What the actual hell?

Ah, fuck it.

"Boss?" Jeremy calls out after us, disapproval seeping into his voice. But any argument he might have put forth gets lost in the clamor of the ongoing party just as Hawk and I disappear on the stairs.

The hallway sprawls out before us, its expanse swallowing the noise from the room we just departed.

I stumble along, a thin cloud of drunken confusion shrouding my thoughts. The alcohol has left me disoriented but also sharpened a curiosity that I can't shake.

"Hey." Hawk's voice cautiously breaks the silence from behind me. "You holding up alright?"

"Y-yeah," I manage to stammer out, my eyes flickering in his direction as I look over my shoulder. Our gazes lock and my heart races in my chest. I try to ignore this strange growing tension between us that always happens when we get close. But tonight… Tonight it feels even more overwhelming.

We continue down the hall and toward the casino, the air charged with an energy neither of us is willing to acknowledge.

My legs seem to have a brain of their own and they don’t listen and I almost lose my battle with gravity but Hawk’s there, holding me up with his uninjured arm.

"Don’t tell the rest of the guys." I chuckle as we reach the bank of elevators.

"You don’t want them to know you’re human," he jokes quietly while my fingers frantically jab at the elevator button.

"Bad for business. Bad for my reputation too."

"We don’t have to have our shit together all the time."

"I do," I mumble to Hawk, trying to keep my voice steady as we step into the elevator together.

The doors slide shut, trapping us in the confined space. I recline against one wall barely maintaining balance as reality seems skewed in direction and perspective.

Hawk leans against the wall opposite mine.

And while we stare at each other to the sound of our breaths and the distant hum of the motors, the elevator ascends.

"You don’t drink often, do you?" Hawk's voice filters through the haze, tentative and cautious.

I will my eyes to focus on him. Strong jawline. Broad shoulders. But not bulky. Illuminated by the harsh overhead light, he looks different somehow. More vulnerable, maybe? Or is it just the liquor playing tricks on me? Or perhaps, the stubble covering the lower part of his face. Or the lack of complexion color. Or the scar on his cheek left by the knife recently.

"Alcohol makes things..." I pause, searching for the right words, then gesture at my disheveled appearance, half-jokingly adding, "Well, as you can see. The prime example is right in front of you."

"I get what you’re trying to say." The corner of his mouth tilts up, transforming his usually blank expression into something I can’t describe.

I nod, swallowing down the sudden urge to reach out across this void between us and touch him, to see if his skin feels as warm as it looks.

Fuck.

The elevator dings, signaling our arrival. The doors woosh open. I push away from the wall, stumbling slightly, and almost meet another wall.

Hawk with his predator-like reflexes he already demonstrated today steps in to catch my arm and steers me away from the collision. "Which way?" he asks as we enter the corridor.

I point in the direction of the secluded wing where rooms for the Thoreau people are located.

As we get to the one of the empty rooms, I fumble for the master key card in my pocket, my hands shaking as I swipe it through the lock and push open the door.

"This one is yours," I tell Hawk, willing my body to stay upright. "A spare key is on the desk in case you need to leave and come back."

He nods his understanding, but doesn't move to enter, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm drowning. And I do. I go down like a fucking plane that has just lost its engine.

But the floor never happens. Instead, Hawk happens. I’m pressed up to him, chest to chest, I realize. His hands grasp me by my shoulders, holding me upright.

The unexpected contact sends a jolt of electricity racing through me, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Our bodies mold together, the heat of him searing through my shirt, and I wonder what it would be like to lose myself completely in his embrace.

"Isaac…" He doesn’t finish the thought. The aborted sentence is swallowed by the rustle of fabric and scuffle of boots as his own body loses its balance and his back meets the wall behind him.

We’re frozen in place like this for several heartbeats. He’s trapped. Our faces are dangerously close, noses almost touching. And I can smell him. The antiseptic. The sweat. The cigarettes.

And the parts of me where our skin connects through the clothes feel like fire and ice simultaneously.

A shiver rushes down my spine at the thought.

Why does this keep on happening when I’m with him?

My mind races, trying to make sense of the overwhelming desire that suddenly grips me. Desire to have something of my own for once.

"Stay still," I rasp out, carefully pushing myself off the wall.

Hawk complies. It's as if we're suspended in time, every inch of me hyperaware of his presence.

And then I do the one thing sober Isaac Thoreau never would.

I press my lips to his, tentatively at first, as though testing uncharted waters. The sensation is electrifying, sending shock waves through my body. My heart pounds in my chest, demanding more. My skin’s abuzz.

Pulling back slightly, I search Hawk's eyes for any sign of rejection or hesitation. It’s almost as if I’m looking at him through a photo lens. The edges of my vision are blurry and his face goes in and out of focus but I’m certain he wants this too—or at least, he's willing to explore whatever this is. Because he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t try to escape.

And I know a lot about consent. I know when it’s given even when the words aren’t said.

Emboldened, I lean in once more, our mouths meeting in a kiss that’s a little bit deeper than the first one, a little bit longer and far from gentle.

The hunger within me grows, fueled by an insatiable need I've never allowed myself to acknowledge before. It's raw and primal, possibly born after years of starvation for physical contact initiated by me. Our lips move together in a dance that's both urgent one minute and unhurried the next, as if we have all the time in the world and yet not nearly enough.

The taste of him lingers on my tongue, an intoxicating blend of whiskey, cinnamon, and something uniquely Hawk.

I feel alive in a way that terrifies me, my senses heightened to the point of near-pain. But it's a pain I welcome, a pain that reminds me I'm still capable of feeling anything at all.

Our mouths continue to explore each other, the tempo of our kisses shifting with every passing moment. It's as if we're both trying to communicate something unspeakable, something that can't be put into words but must instead be experienced like this.

For the first time in my life, I do want something for myself—something that has nothing to do with power or control or revenge. It’s warmth. Warmth of the human touch.

I draw back with a ragged breath, just enough to mutter a "fuck."

I now crave the very thing I've always been scared of and I’m not sure how to handle it.

Without saying a word, I turn around and start walking to my room.