Darkness Bound

6

She was lonely. Lonely with a capital L.

Those were the ones who always fell the hardest.

Smart and capable and strong, Jacqueline was at her core a motherless little girl, still struggling to believe she deserved the love she so desperately craved.

Most likely she didn’t have enough self-awareness to grasp that fact, Hawk thought, watching her as she ordered something from the waitress at her tableside, pointedly not looking in his direction. Usually only the ones who had extensive therapy were anything close to self-aware—and those enlightened cadelas bored him to tears.

He motioned for the waitress. She sprang into action without a moment’s hesitation, hightailing it across the crowded dance floor. She arrived a little breathless, blinking rapidly, shifting her weight in her high heels from foot to foot. Judging by the way her ankles were slightly swollen, the shoes were a size too small, and she’d been on her feet a long time.

He said to her gently in Portuguese, “You’re working hard tonight.”

She blushed. “One of the other girls called in sick. It’s my third double shift this week.”

She was pretty, if a little worn around the edges. Brunette and busty and not particularly young, she gave him a tentative smile.

Hot little subbie, you’d like me to tie you up and tell you what a good girl you are as I spank that nice plump ass, wouldn’t you?

Pretending the music was a little too loud to be heard over, Hawk lightly grasped her wrist and drew her closer. He savored the little gasp she gave as he bent his head to her ear.

“I’d like to send a drink to someone. The redhead in the booth over there.”

The waitress held her breath, listening to his voice with every cell in her body. Beneath his fingers, her arm trembled.

“Um . . . uh . . . okay,” she breathed, frozen stiff. “What-what kind?”

Hawk thought about it a moment, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth across her wrist. The waitress exhaled, leaning closer.

“Tequila,” he decided, listening to her heart hammer, feeling her blood rush through the ulnar artery on the inside of her wrist. “Whatever’s your best.” He gave her wrist a firm squeeze and smiled to himself as she let out the faintest of moans.

“Yes,” she said almost inaudibly, and he knew she wasn’t talking about the drink.

He withdrew and gazed down at her, his eyes half-lidded. She stared up at him in something like awe. “Good girl,” he murmured, and the poor waitress actually swayed on her feet.

“Off you go,” he said, holding her gaze. She nodded, swallowed, turned, and walked unsteadily away.

Hawk glanced at Jacqueline’s table, and found her staring at the retreating waitress with a furrow between her brows. Her gaze came back to him, and he was surprised when she didn’t look away. Instead the look deepened . . . as did the furrow between her brows.

Strangely, because he never cared about things like that, Hawk wondered what she was thinking.

Her food arrived, plopped down on the tabletop in front of her by a busboy with the grace of a gorilla. Startled, she broke eye contact and glanced down at her plate. They exchanged a few low words before the busboy stalked away. Above the strains of the violins and guitars and the sounds of feet sliding along the dance floor and a hundred different conversations, Hawk heard Jacqueline mutter to herself, “f*****g moody men.”

Interesting . . . and telling. He sensed a lifetime of disappointment behind those words. And something else. Anger or bitterness or maybe even fear, he couldn’t tell which.

He c****d his head, studying her as she looked down in obvious disgust at her plate. It contained a cheeseburger and a pile of greasy fries, absolutely normal pub food, but judging by the way she glared at it, the plate might as well have contained the severed head of her arch enemy. She pushed it away, slumped down in her seat, closed her eyes, and sighed.

The busty brunette waitress appeared at her side with a shot of tequila. “The, uh, handsome gentleman at the bar sent this over for you.”

Jacqueline sent Hawk a long, stony look. Then she said to the waitress, “Tell the handsome gentleman it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a shot of tequila.” Still holding his gaze, she grabbed the shot and downed it in one swallow.

The animal inside him growled in pleasure.

Red wanted to play . . . and she hated herself for it. Nothing like a little ambivalence to spice things up.

He crooked a finger at her. Come here. Jacqueline responded by chuffing a short, derisive laugh. She handed the shot glass back to the waitress, folded her arms across her chest, and pretended to study the hideous oil painting of a gaucho on horseback that was hanging on the wall above her booth.

The waitress turned and looked at him uncertainly. He nodded, letting her know it was okay, then gave a small jerk of his chin to summon her. She was there in an instant, breathlessly waiting for him to speak.

When he didn’t, she stammered, “The um . . . the girl . . . the lady said to tell you that she . . . uh . . . it was going to . . .”

“I got the gist of it,” he reassured her, “but thank you.”

The waitress glanced over at Jacqueline, then the band, which had segued into another number. “You heard that? Her table’s all the way over—”

“I’m just good at reading body language.” He leaned forward, stroking a finger up her arm. “Send two more shots over to her table, will you, beautiful? And keep them coming. She’s my boss, and I royally screwed up on the job today. I’m trying to get her drunk so she doesn’t have the energy to fire me.”

Hawk sent the waitress a conspiratorial smile, which she melted under.

“Oh—your boss!” Relief flashed in her eyes, followed quickly by shy self-consciousness. Then he couldn’t see her eyes at all because she lowered her lashes as a bloom of color spread across her cheeks.