21. Dallas

CHAPTER 21

DALLAS

I'm threading through a labyrinth of lawlessness, and I've finally struck the vein. The intel is gold—pure and promising—and it's all because of Isaac, whose presence lingers like smoke on my skin. It's been less than twenty-four hours since his lips branded mine in the secrecy of the locker room, a filthy kiss that's got my head spinning.

Now here I am, called to duty, rolling out with Jeremy and the rest of the guys—Seven, Marco, Hector, Flynn—like pawns on a chessboard, moving three trucks laden with Russian firepower destined for Toro on Arizona's sun-scorched reservation land.

As I’m sitting in one of the trucks next to silent Jeremy who doesn’t trust me with the wheel, the memory punches through my mind. It plays like an old film reel. Roughly a dozen men load the contraband, our movements orchestrated chaos. Rifles nestled into hollowed-out drill bits, sockets, machinery that's nothing more than a trojan horse with a steel heart. My hands remember the weight, the cold metal. But they itch for something else—the heat of Isaac’s touch.

I have to shake it all off because it begins to blend into one—Russian guns and Isaac’s kiss. And I don’t know if I can handle it. I choose to ignore the nagging voice inside my head telling me I’m a fucking traitor.

And now Jeremy's here, next to me, a stone-faced companion for the endless stretch of road. Conversation with him is like drawing blood from an old corpse, and frankly, I don’t have the stomach for it. Instead, Isaac fills every silent gap, his kiss a ghosting touch that keeps replaying, relentless and distracting.

What was that?

A flicker of real desire or just another power play?

And do I let myself get carried away with this?

The night swallows us whole as we drive through the bleak landscape, headlights cutting the darkness. The desert air is thick with tightness, the kind that clings to you and curls around your throat. I keep stealing glances at Jeremy. He's a riddle wrapped in barbed wire, always watching me with those hawkish eyes that don't miss a thing.

Does he really see through the guise of Cody "Hawk" Smith?

Or is it just paranoia nipping at his—and my—heels?

Jeremy and I ride in the lead, our cargo hidden beneath a facade of legitimacy. Behind us Marco and Seven. Flynn, who’s been throwing thanks left and right, is in the last vehicle along with Hector.

Six and a half hours later, the trucks roll to a stop. The growl of their engines eases into silence as we reach the reservation's edge. Smart, I think to myself immediately. If this is going the way I think it’s going .

A man’s silhouette enters my line of vision as I climb out of the truck, following Jeremy’s lead. He peels away from the shadows and starts walking in our direction, long-haired, broad-shouldered, and impressive. The uneven ground crunches beneath his heavy boots as he approaches, each step whispers a promise of danger.

Jeremy greets him with a rough familiarity that speaks of many crossings, of deals made under the cover of darkness. He offers his hand for a shake. "Evening, EJ. How’s everything?"

The other men chime in with murmured acknowledgments.

"Who's the new guy?" EJ’s gaze locks onto me, sharp and assessing. His eyes slip down my figure, then crawl back up. Perhaps his attention has something to do with our shared heritage. Or perhaps he’s just careful.

"New blood. Name’s Hawk," Jeremy says, brief as a gunshot, and moves on. Venom on his lips is more than obvious.

After Jeremy and EJ talk quietly off to the side, I’m instructed to move to another truck while EJ commandeers my former seat next to Jeremy.

"Why the hell are we doing this at night if everything's above board?" I ask in a hushed tone as Seven nudges me toward his truck.

"Rez ain't too keen on gunrunning through their backyard," he explains, his voice equally low. "We keep it quiet, deal with EJ only. Man's got a foot in two worlds."

I nod, filing away every scrap of information I can get. "Is he reliable?" I ask, hoping to get the conversation about EJ going. I know reservation land is out of our jurisdiction. What happens on the rez usually stays on the rez. But collecting some extra intel on all of the moving parts of the operation is always useful. You never know when you’ll need this info.

"He’s solid. Been doing business with him ever since Isaac got out."

More questions pop up in my head but there’s no time to ask them.

We climb into the truck and get going.

Our convoy lumbers forward, wheels crunching over the gravel path that cuts through the rez. Despite my being slightly apathetic about half of my ancestry at times, it feels sacrilegious, and I force down the discomfort crawling up my spine.

The legitimate business of tool transportation is nothing but a mask, a thin veneer over the contraband nestled within steel cavities. Nothing original about this operation but it’s smartly done. Has Isaac Thoreau written all over it.

Fuck.

I hate how he always gets inside my mind in the most inappropriate moment.

His kiss haunts me. The memory—very vivid at that—refuses to die. Even after so many hours that slowly turn into days, I can still taste him on my lips, a bittersweet mix of longing and danger that sears through my thoughts, leaving a trail of cigarette ash and unanswered questions.

Soon, we arrive at an unmarked road hugging the mountainous terrain, possibly near the border. There are several armed guards already waiting. I spot several more male figures hanging back, hiding in the foreground. One of them could be wearing some kind of uniform. It’s hard to tell.

"Stay sharp, boys," Jeremy grumbles once we’re out of the trucks. His hand is resting casually on the butt of his gun as he starts walking toward the group gathered further up the hill.

My pulse is a steady drumbeat despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. There's no room for falter. As Hawk, I’m solid with the gang now. I’m a member of Isaac's chosen few. But beneath the facade, I'm an interloper.

Slowly, Seven motions toward Jeremy and EJ, the message clear. I play by the rules—follow.

I do as I’m told, squinting against the dim light of dancing flashlights. Finally, the faces start coming into focus. As we near them, Jeremy flicks his chin up in acknowledgement at the man standing in the center. He tops it off with a brief, "Hey, man. What’s going on?"

Hispanic. Possibly in his early fifties. Sleek hair glistening when illuminated. Could be wearing several pounds of gold in various jewelry. Nothing extraordinary except he makes my danger instincts prickle like static electricity.

The man to his right is Native and wearing a tribal police uniform, his thumbs casually tucked into his belt. He says nothing, acknowledging our presence with an indifferent nod.

"Amigo! Good to see you." The center man opens his arms wide for a distance-hug mock-up but something tells me if you try to get to him closer than a foot, he’ll end you. "What did you bring me this time, huh?" He laughs a little. "Some nice Russian candy again?" Guy’s got a crazy streak judging by the unsettling glint in his eyes. He is flanked by two burly dudes, who I assume are his bodyguards based on the amount of firepower they’re packing.

As I’m filing this information away, my senses spike up to the highest levels.

I know it’s Toro before the names are even uttered.

The transaction unfolds with mechanical precision. The men's hands are quick and efficient as they transfer the cargo from our vehicles to their own, smaller vans. I’m not required to do anything, just stand and observe to make sure everything goes smoothly.

In the distance, coyotes howl, their cries a mournful serenade to the moon. It's a song of the forsaken, a reminder that in this world, trust is a currency spent sparingly, and love—a luxury none can afford.

"Seems risky to be moving the load this close to the border, no?" I murmur to Flynn, whose eyes never leave the transfer.

"Can't risk the big rigs on the trails," he says, nodding toward the man in the tribal police uniform. "Gabe guides 'em through the backways. Around the patrols. Trucks like these would get stuck or spotted before they even got halfway."

"Smart," I admit, my response automatic but my mind racing. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place, another detail for the report I now dread giving Nicole.

At the same time, bags exchange hands. Bags filled with crisp and cold cash. Jeremy and Seven count the money fast. They’ve done this before. I can see that they have a system. The deal is sealed with a handshake and Toro’s happy maniacal laugh and we're back on the road to Nevada before the dust settles. The convoy is snaking its way through the desert labyrinth leading us home.

And then two hours into our drive, Jeremy says casually from behind the wheel, "Hey, Hawk. Phoenix is coming up. You wanna make a pit stop? See the fam?"

What the hell?

See the fam while we’re packed with this much bloody cash?

I shake my head, staring out at the darkness swallowing the highway. "Nah, let's just get back to Vegas."

"You sure?"

"I’m not close with my family," I scrape up a lie that would seem plausible. "Why do you think I left?" I look at his profile briefly, then turn back to the road stretching before us. "Why risk stopping anyway?"

"Uh-huh." Jeremy’s tone sharpens, cutting through the hum of the engine, as he hums something. All of a sudden, his breath is on my cheek. Quick and hot and filled with a deadly warning. He hisses out, "I saw you asking questions back on the rez. Mind your own business."

The sentence hangs between us. Before I can reply, he's already turned his focus back to the road, leaving the tension to simmer in the confined space of the truck.

Six more hours. I just need to make sure I don’t strangle him before we get to Vegas.

Purgatory lives up to its name tonight, a den of sinners celebrating their spoils. We are all downstairs and the club has closed down for the night. The entire place is ours again for a few hours.

Smoke curls through the main floor, the scent of weed mingling with the scene of sweat and cologne. Men laugh too loudly, their voices coated with bravado and booze, slinging phrases like "easy money" and "smooth sailing" as if they don't tempt fate with every breath.

Isaac stands amidst the chaos, doling out stacks of cash that fan out like tainted peacock feathers. He's a dark sun around which these planets orbit, pulled by gravity and greed alike.

"Look at you, Hawk!" Seven slurs, draping his heavy arm across my shoulders, almost toppling us both. "You're one of us now, brother!" He then tosses back another shot and laughs, clapping me on the chest.

His approval stings like a slap at first. It’s an affirmation from the damned. But his enthusiasm is infectious too and I want to drench myself into this debauchery and not think about the mission or the fact that I’m a fake.

When I turn to Isaac, our gazes collide, and something unspoken crackles in the air. It's there, in the flicker of his eyes, the invisible thread pulling taut. My mind flashes to the press of his lips, a memory that scorches even in the midst of this party.

I have to breathe through it, breathe through it like it’s a panic attack.

"Drink up!" Flynn yells, and glasses clink, shattering the moment like fragile ice.

When I glance back at where Isaac had been standing, all I catch is the ghost of his presence. He'd retreated into a corner, a shadow in the neon haze.

He never likes to be the center of attention. Something I respect about him. He’s not vain.

Marco steps in beside me and Seven, reaching out drunkenly for my face. "Looks like Hawk's officially flying with the Hellhounds." He squashes me with his massive hands, a whiff of tequila comes at me. The healing scar on my cheek aches from his grip. "Right, Hawk? Aren’t you glad to be with us now?"

The room vibrates with his laughter and twisted sense of camaraderie as he peers down at me, dark eyes swimming in liquor.

A chorus rises from the dimly-lit corners–an eerie imitation of wolves crying beneath an indigo sky. The sound sends hairs raising on my nape as I feel this acceptance within me. It’s like a tidal wave, rushing at me from each and every portion of this room we’re occupying.

Except for the fragment of space where Jeremy stands.

"Hawk?" he grinds out. "More like a damn pigeon. A rat with wings. Ain't no way he ain't a cop."

The room stills, eyes darting to me, then away—no one wants to catch this grenade. The heat is suddenly rising.

It’s now or never. I either solidify myself with these guys or become a target of everyone’s suspicions.

"Shut your trap, J," I spit back, stepping closer to him, feeling the weight of every eye in the club. "You're just salty 'cause I'm bringing more to the table than you've been probably all fucking year."

"Careful, buddy." He stubs his index finger into my chest, his words sloppy and slurred but laced with anger. "Don't wanna crash and burn on your first flight."

"Unlike you, I take care of business," I retort, my blood heating at his accusation. This cockroach just won’t let it be. "Like patching up Flynn while you stood around flapping gums. What good's muscle if it ain't got the brains to match?"

Someone whistles from the back. "Fucking burn!" Sounds like Ricky.

Hector cackles. "Hawk’s got some words to say!"

"Five hundred on Hawk."

"Thousand on J!"

They are placing bets all of a sudden while Jeremy and I are locked into a standoff in the middle of the club floor with neon lights blinking all around us.

"You’re a fucking cop. And I’m going to prove it," he supplies, his eyes drilling a hole in my skull. Fucker is intimidating up close, especially with that gnarly scar.

"You’re paranoid," I tell him.

He slams his palm into my chest and the force of the impact sends me back a step.

"Enough!" The word explodes from Isaac as he strides into the center of the tension—Blade, in every sense, cutting through the bullshit. He whips out his gun, the gleam of metal silencing the room faster than any shout could.

"Both of you, cut the crap or I'll cut it for ya," Isaac commands, his eyes dark embers beneath furrowed brows. His gaze lands heavy on me, and something unspoken passes between us, raw and jagged.

"Out," he orders, still looking at me. Not a request. A command from the man who holds power over life and death in this twisted sanctuary.

"Are you serious right now?" I cry out.

I know I need to keep my cool and do what I’m told especially with drunk dumbass Jeremy throwing accusations that could ruin it all. But I’m wired, fire is rushing through my veins right now instead of blood.

My gaze remains on Isaac for a few more seconds, then I glare at Jeremy, letting him see the challenge in my eyes, before turning on my heel and marching out. The door slams behind me, the thud echoing in my chest. I can feel the anger coiling tight, ready to strike, as I stalk through the dim corridors of Purgatory.

"Hawk!" Isaac's voice follows me in the form of a rough plea that scrapes against my composure.

But I don't stop.

I won't.

Not now when I need to keep my head, when every instinct screams to confront, to claim, to collide with whatever madness this dance with Isaac is leading me toward. I can still feel the damn imprint of his lips, the sensation of his touch—a brand on my skin, a taunt to my senses.

And when he’s close, everything—emotions and memories—just multiply. Multiply to the point I can’t contain any of it.

"Damn it, Hawk, will you just hold up?" Isaac's hand lands heavily on my shoulder just as I’m about to round the corner. He takes advantage of the way my body is angling and spins me to face him. We're inches apart, breathing the same charged air.

His stupid silk shirt is undone, the top three buttons as always, showing off the mark on his neck and his perfect chest. It’s enough to be a tempting invitation to sin—to betray everything that I am. Except the part where I know what I like. And out of all the men, must it be him? Long legs, sheathed in slacks. Dark hair, disheveled, as if he's clawed through it in frustration. And then there's the gun in his hand, a paradox of danger and defense.

His eyes are turbulent pools where hurricanes are born, and I can hear my own heart thrashing against my rib cage, threatening to break free.

"By kicking me out, you just told everyone I don't belong," I spit the words at him. I can’t be bothered with appearances right now. Or staying cool.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he offers almost genuinely. "But it saved your ass back there, didn’t it?" The sharpness of his gaze softens into something that looks like regret. "Jeremy won’t leave you alone."

"Oh please, save it," I counter, standing my ground while the undercurrents of this place pull at my ankles. "You still think I need your protection?"

Isaac steps closer, completely erasing the small gap I've meticulously measured in heartbeats. My pulse throbs with anger, or is it something else? It's hard to tell when he's so near, blurring all the lines. His nose is almost brushing mine as he stares at me and my frustration from the lack of control for the first time in my life is getting to me. I feel like a fourteen-year-old. All stupid and hormonal.

"Looking at me won’t fix this shit," I whisper angrily out at him, gesticulating erratically, acutely aware of how childish I must appear for a grown, thirty-two-year-old man.

"Well, if anything, at least I can derive some visual pleasure from looking at you when you’re this close," he says, deadpan.

I almost…almost roll my eyes but I don’t because other things happening to my body draw my attention. Something unusual in the southern region. Fuck.

My voice falters, barely above a whisper when I mutter, "Are we ever going to talk about that kiss, or are you going to throw me another line of bullshit like the first time?"

A flicker of something passes through his gaze. His poker face crumbles and shifts into something more… human.

Instantly, his expression is flooded with an array of emotions.

Guilt? Longing? Fury? Sadness?

I feel it all, a tempest brewing beneath my skin. His nearness is the eye of the storm, calm yet devastating. It's not the surge of rage that makes my hands tremble—it's the unnamed current drawing me to him, the magnetic force of an uncharted desire.

"Talk is cheap, Hawk," he murmurs. And the way he says this name… All of a sudden I want Cody Smith to replace Dallas Bradley on all my documents. Because Dallas Bradley can’t afford what Hawk feels for Isaac Thoreau.

"Don’t I know it?" I whisper back at him as he slides the cold tip of the Glock down my arm. From my shoulder to my wrist, as if an artist mapping out his next masterpiece right here in the middle of Purgatory’s back hallway.

I know it’s wrong. I fucking know I should be concerned, scared, ready for blood. Anything but this.

Instead, my breath hitches, caught in the snare of his dangerous proximity. There's gravity to Isaac, a weighty presence that pulls at the tides within me, washing away my resolve. I want to dive into those depths, to explore the unknown contours of this attraction. But I'm afraid—afraid of what I'll find beneath the surface, and more so, of what I won't be able to leave behind.

"So, are you going to do something about it?" he rasps out.

"Are you going to shoot me if I am?" I snap back. I still remember that wounded look on his face in the parking lot when he shoved me away and told me not to touch him without permission right after I fucking saved his life at the possible expense of my own. That expression—it’s imprinted in my mind like the rest of the contradictory things I’ve learned about him in these past few months.

"Are you going to do something worth shooting you?" Isaac asks.

He nudges me backward.

I shove at his chest. It’s gentle. Nothing that can hurt him.

Abruptly, Isaac's body is chaos against mine, his movement all storm and purpose. We grapple—a dance of power, of desperation. The hallway shrinks to the space where our bodies collide until I am pinned against the cool wall. Isaac's hands frame my head, not touching, but imprisoning me within an inch of freedom that feels miles wide. He’s still holding on to the Glock.

"Every damn night," he begins, voice low and uneven, "I’m fucking awake with your name scratching at the inside of my skull." His breath fans across my face, warm and ragged. "This... this thing between us, Hawk—it's like a shadow. I turn my back on it, and still, it clings to me. Persistent as hell. "

I can feel him—a pressure in the air, an electric hum under my skin. My blood sings a riotous chorus at his word, every beat a drum calling me closer to the edge of reason.

"Your problem. Not mine," I murmur.

"Your touch—" He stops talking, brushing his nose over the strands of hair framing the side of my head, inhaling it, "—you know what it does? It doesn't repulse me. It's a goddamn revelation."

My chest tightens as I hear what I think is some kind of confession.

Another contradiction.

"Do you want to make sure?" I breathe out an invitation, a whisper that seems too loud in the silence that follows his monologue when he pulls away slightly to look at my face.

"Oh, we’ve made sure… A couple of times."

He brings his mouth to mine and nips on my lower lip, teeth and lips at the same time, an electrifying sensation that spreads through my entire body, spark by spark. Then he draws away and we stare at each other for a few heartbeats. His eyes are waiting for something, perhaps for a sign that I don’t mind what we’re doing… or what we’re about to do…whatever it is…

My hands are still at my sides, fists clenched. I’m not stupid to try and fight my way out of his trap when he’s the one with the gun. But I also know he’s not carrying it around with him because he’s a trigger-happy asshole.

I think…I think he feels safer with it.

I think people who’ve been to prison would do anything not to be helpless.

"I don’t get it," Isaac mutters. "Why it has to be you out of all the people surrounding me."

"Are you not satisfied?"

"On the contrary." He smirks, a rare occurrence, which has my cock hardening all of a sudden. "I’m intrigued."

He closes his eyes and brushes his mouth over mine again. Until I can’t take this torture anymore. I tilt my head and return the favor.

He stops teasing.

Oh, it’s on now.

The taste of his breath fills my mouth as our lips crash together, a cataclysm of need. There's nothing gentle about this kiss. It's a clash, teeth and tongue, the raw scratch of desire. My mouth opens under his, a silent plea for more of this filth, this perfect profanity we create together. He tastes like sin and redemption, like something forbidden that I've been starving for without knowing its name.

The kiss deepens, and I'm drowning in sensation, in the slick heat of his tongue stroking mine, the sharp bite of his teeth pulling at my lower lip from time to time. My hands, no longer my own, find his hair, fingers tangling in the disarray of those messy dark waves, tugging him closer, as if there could be no distance between us at all, as if we could meld into one being driven by hunger alone.

There's a growl in my throat, a sound that belongs to the animalistic part of me that wants to claim and be claimed. Isaac's hands drop from the wall, rough and insistent as they pull at my clothes, mapping the landscape of my body with a possessiveness that ignites my internal conflict into a blaze.

For just this moment, I let go of the tethers holding me to who I should be, surrendering to the chaos of what I am with him. Isaac Thoreau, Blade, the enigma with turbulent eyes, has become a paradox of a man. My paradox. In his arms, I am lost and found, and for now, that's all I dare to understand.