Hawk: Burnout, #3

Chapter 1

Hawk Red Cloud’s large 6’3" frame filled the mirror in front of him as he scrubbed the engine grease out from underneath his fingernails. It was a never-ending job, but it was one he didn’t mind. In a past life, the engine grease was other men’s blood and though that had never seriously bothered Hawk, he had never enjoyed it either. He much preferred taking apart engines and putting them back together in perfect, working order.

Once he was satisfied, he shut off the tap and turned on the shower beside him, letting the water heat up. He stripped out of his black t-shirt, black jeans, and heavy, steel toed boots. The last thing to go was the rubber band that held back his hair at the nape of his neck. As he tossed the accessory onto the sink ledge, his shiny black hair fell down until it was just touching his shoulders.

It wasn’t nearly as long as it had been in his other past life, before the Army had made him chop it off per regs. The uniform, the brutal, punishing torture that had been disguised as training and the food, which had been, unbelievably, worse, had not bothered him nearly as much as the loss of his hair. Losing it had put him in a very bad mood for a very long time.

His perpetually bad mood had at least ensured that no one in Basic fucked with him. He had always known that, deep down, even his Drill Sergeant had been just a little afraid of him. This had the unfortunate side effect of Hawk always being given more laps, more push-ups, and more KP duty than anyone else. But at age 18, when he’d enlisted, Hawk was already used to being the target of other men’s ire. He had always been large, well-muscled, and tall. Occasionally other men’s initial fear of him morphed into jealousy, which often manifested as anger. As a younger man, Hawk had escalated these conflicts as often as he could. Now that he was older, he took it more in stride.

The water was hot and felt good against his sore muscles. Hours underneath custom cars and trucks could make you wonder if pretzels had it easier. He washed his hair and toweled it dry. When it was just barely damp, he combed it back into his usual short ponytail and secured it again with the band.

The early July night was hot but there was a nice, steady breeze. Hawk swung his leg, clad in black cargo pants, over his black and chrome Harley and settled into the seat. His large, black boot started the engine, and his black t-shirt stretched over his well-defined chest as he turned the bike toward the street.

He never really stopped to wonder if his trademark, all-black attire was a bit of comical overkill. The truth was black hid stains of all kinds: grease, dirt, and blood, the last of which Hawk had seen less of since discharging from the Army. But, hey, Friday nights at Maria’s bar on the edge of town were unpredictable. Plus Hawk was good at a lot of things, but laundry wasn’t really one of them. If people mistook his practicality for attempting to exude a menacing persona, well, that was their problem.

Maria’s bar was named for a tough-talking, no-nonsense, platinum-haired blonde. What Maria’s razor-sharp tongue couldn’t take care of, her shotgun usually did, not that Hawk and the boys let her have much use of it these days.

Since coming back home to Rapid City and settling down, the boys from Hawk’s old unit had adopted Maria’s place as a second home. And although Maria was about as tough and independent as a woman, hell anyone, could possibly be, she wasn’t stupid by any means. She knew it didn’t hurt to have five ex-Special Forces acting as unofficial bouncers for the bar.

Even on nights the men didn’t make an appearance, the mere threat of being hunted down by a Sioux tracker, a world class sniper, a demolitions expert, a medic-turned-cop who looked like he knew more about dishing out damage than fixing it, and a pain in the ass cowboy was often enough of a deterrent. If it wasn’t, the offender was usually very drunk or from out of town.

Hawk entered the bar and scanned it. He veered left where a wisp of a girl was balancing a tray full of drinks with one arm and resting her hip against the table.

This is your last round, the girl told two bleary eyed men, both of whom looked like they’d misplaced their razors.

Aw, come on now, darlin’, one argued. Still early.

And you’re already drunk, the girl replied, shaking her head.

She set down a beer, and the man who had spoken took hold of her wrist.

Not so drunk we can’t keep ’em hard, he informed her. Whaddaya say? Little threesome? Play nice and we’ll give you a big tip.

As Hawk got closer to the table, he assessed the situation. As he was weighing the options, the barmaid simply shifted her feet and yanked hard, pulling her wrist in the direction where the patron’s thumb and fingers met, the weakest part of the hold. She broke free easily. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Hawk saw a beast of a man, only one scant inch shorter than Hawk himself, rise from his chair across the bar.

But it’s not even midnight yet, Hawk thought to himself. He still needed to lose at pool to Shooter, trade jabs with the Cowboy, and find himself a suitable female to burn off all his excess energy.

Hawk stepped up to the waitress, slid his arm around her waist, and leaned down to kiss her on the side of the head.

How’s it going, Slick? he asked with a smile, keeping his gaze on the two men across from them.

She leaned into him, her smaller body tucking into his, and sighed. Fine, she told him.

Hawk figured that other than being supremely annoyed, she probably was fine. He stole a glance at the beast, who was now standing but not advancing toward them. Of the group of people who now comprised their little makeshift extended family, only two of them had ever killed a man up close and personal. Hawk was one, having knifed an Iraqi insurgent who’d come upon them during a stealth infiltration of an Al Qaeda compound. Hawk had punctured both of the man’s lungs and then slit his throat to keep him from sounding the alarm.

The other person with a confirmed edge-kill was the little barmaid tucked into Hawk’s side. Hawk harbored no delusions of grandeur on that score; Slick’s kill had been more brutal, more visceral, and harder than Hawk’s had been. She didn’t even have the benefit of Uncle Sam’s training.

Want a beer? she asked him.

Yep.

Slick reached out and snagged the beer she’d just put down in front of Mr. Handsy.

Hey! the man protested as she handed it to Hawk instead.

Hawk took it and grinned. Sarah Sullivan had sass. That was for damn sure. Sometimes he wondered how her husband kept his blood pressure in check in the face of all that sass. Turning to the man across the table, Hawk’s smile died, and he arranged his own features into a look of cold, hard menace. The man immediately sat back into his chair, shrinking away.

Pay up and leave, Hawk said evenly. And don’t forget the big tip. Without waiting for a response, Hawk gave Slick a final squeeze and left with his beer. He had no qualms about walking away from the two losers. He knew who had his back.

He crossed the bar and headed to his own table, taking up the empty chair. He sat down next to the beast, who lowered himself into his own seat.

Thanks, Chris Shooter Sullivan said. Hawk didn’t have to ask what for; he simply nodded.

Slick’s got some new moves, the large Sioux observed, taking a pull on his illicit beer. Easy’s doing a good job with her.

Shooter nodded and cast a glance at Jimmy Easy Turnbull who was on the other side of the bar, hitting on a petite blonde. Yeah, he agreed. It’s good for both of them.

Shooter had married Slick in the fall of the past year and this summer had set out to teach his wife some basic self-defense skills. But in the wake of everything his woman had been through, Shooter couldn’t bring himself to tussle with her like that. It didn’t help that long before they were even dating, Shooter himself had cold-cocked Slick, busting her lip open. Didn’t matter that it was an accident. Didn’t matter that Chris Sullivan would never intentionally raise a hand to a woman, maybe not even if his own life depended on it.

Chris had confessed to the men that he could not stop picturing his wife bruised and broken and had asked Easy to take over giving her lessons. Easy and Slick had once had an argument that ended with the two of them actually tussling on Easy’s living room floor (Slick coming out ahead on that one). Despite missing the lower half of his right leg, Easy was an ex-Army ranger and, if pressed, would still be deadly in a hand-to-hand combat situation. But he hadn’t hurt Slick, so everyone was reasonably assured that Easy would take care with her during their lessons. So far Slick had never looked worse for wear, just occasionally a little sore.

At the pool table, the Cowboy and his woman, Vegas, were playing an intense game of Nine Ball.

Who’s winning?

Who do you think? Shooter replied with a smirk.

Hawk grinned. What do you think she’ll make him do?

Shooter shook his head. I don’t know, but I hope it involves pink nail polish.

Hawk chuckled. Mark Tex Marsten, whom Hawk often called simply ‘The Cowboy’, took his pool games with Vegas very seriously, and even though he occasionally resorted to cheating, Tex often lost to her. The stakes were often things like holding her purse while they went lingerie shopping. Hawk didn’t want to know what happened when she lost; it was probably better to not know for sure. Either way, Hawk was reasonably certain that on any given night, he could lift up Abby Raines’ skirt and find a red handprint on her butt cheek—not that Hawk would ever lift Abby’s skirt.

Hawk gave Mark a lot of shit, because that’s just how things were between them, but in the thick of it, Mark kept his head down and his shit together and did anything and everything that needed to be done. Once when they were all in the thick of it, Hawk had been flanked by two men that he’d been forced to gun down on the road to Basra. Amidst the gunfire, he’d failed to hear the third man coming up behind him for a kill shot. Mark had unholstered his sidearm and tapped the third man in the back of the head before he could get his shot off.

Hawk would not repay his brother’s kindness by making a move on his woman.

Besides, Vegas might be smoking hot and fun to be around, but she was also sexually submissive, and Hawk didn’t play that way, with whips and chains and whatever else. Whatever the Cowboy did with Vegas, though, Vegas apparently loved it because she looked genuinely happy.

Slick and Shooter were happily married, and Tex and Vegas were happily…doing whatever it was they did. Those were the only two couples that Hawk had ever seen that had the potential to make it long-term. Hawk didn’t do long-term; he did short-term- often. He scanned the bar for his next Ms. Right Now.

Chapter 2

Yesterday, I go to the grocery store.

Tildy’s nose crinkled.

Ay, Mari said, shaking her head.

Tildy smiled. Close, she told the much older woman. "Really close. Yesterday, I went to the grocery store."

Mari blew out a frustrated breath. Tildy’s eyes slid to the clock on the classroom wall. It was nearly six o’clock. She was late, so late, but as Mari shifted in her seat and regained her focus, so did Tildy.

Sorry, the older, Mexican-soon-to-be-American woman said.

You’re getting it, Tildy assured her. You really are. When Mari looked doubtful, Tildy tacked on, Honest.

It was true. Despite having very little grasp of English, Mari had signed up for one of the classes Tildy volunteered to teach at the Rapid City Community Center, but Tildy was confident that Mari would be more than ready for her naturalization exam in December. She was determined to help Mari achieve her dream of becoming a U.S. Citizen, hence the after-class tutoring sessions three times a week.

Let’s finish the exercises, Tildy prompted.

Mari nodded and finished the rest of the conjugation exercises with only a few mistakes.

At six o’clock, the two women began packing up their things. For about the millionth time, Mari picked up her purse. Tildy didn’t even need to turn and look at the woman.

Olvidelo, Tildy said. Forget it.

Mari grunted. Stubborn, she said, shoving a few bills back into her wallet.

Tildy turned to smile at the other woman. I make enough.

Tildy was the Head Teller at the Black Hills Regional Bank downtown. This was a better paying job than the commercial laundry where Mariposa worked 6 days a week, even without taking into account Tildy’s hiked-up salary because her parents owned the bank.

You’re worth more, Tildy, Mari replied, reaching out and fingering the gold medallion around the younger woman’s neck. You’re a good girl. I need five like you instead of the three I have, always chasing the wrong boys.

Tildy laughed and tucked the pendant back into her shirt.

Tildy and Mariposa parted ways in front of the Community Center building. Mariposa walked to the covered bus stop at the end of the street, while Tildy rounded the corner of the building to the side lot where her Mercedes was parked.

She thumbed the key fob and unlocked the doors. As she started the engine, she felt the shudder of a rough idle that she’d noticed this morning when she left the house. It revved fine though, and Tildy turned out of the lot and headed across town.

Urban buildings gave way to small neighborhoods, with chain-link fences separating the yards, which eventually gave way to newer, nicer subdivisions with larger, landscaped yards. Tildy drove past all those and took the last road before leaving the city proper. The houses here were larger than even the Community Center and they were much nicer than Rapid City’s standard split-level ranches. Tildy pulled into a three-car garage of a French country inspired house with large windows and surrounded by mature trees. She killed the problematic engine. Thankfully, the other two vehicle bays were still empty.

She hurried inside the house and up the stairs. In her room, she frowned at the blue three-quarter sleeved dress laid out across the made bed. It was slightly warm for the first of July, but she looked ‘nice’ in it, or as close to nice as Tildy could apparently get.

Tildy had a slim frame and was only 5’5". Her hair was dark chestnut, and according to her mother it was her only really good feature. It hung well past her shoulders and framed Tildy’s too-plain face.

She kicked off her sandals and flung her button-down blouse over the large dollhouse that sat in the corner of the bedroom. She wiggled out of her designer jeans and tossed them aside as well. She carefully unclasped the chain of her St. Christopher medal and gathered the necklace into the palm of her hand. Bypassing the jewelry box that sat on top of the dresser, she headed toward the bed with its pink and white frilly comforter. She picked up a pillow and slipped the medal into the pillowcase. She replaced the pillow, fluffing it, and straightening the corners.

She turned and headed into the adjoining private bathroom and turned on the shower. She quickly showered and washed her hair. It took a long time to dry, even with the hair dryer, too long.

Tildy stepped from the bathroom at the same time her mother entered her bedroom. The look of irritation that seemed nearly permanently affixed to the older woman’s face was clearly visible.

Matilda, her mother sighed. "You’re not ready? I left that dress out for you hours ago."

Tildy said nothing, knowing there was no point. She crossed to the dresser and pulled out a clean pair of panties and a matching bra. Her mother came up beside her, and Tildy fought the urge to flinch.

But Deirdre Fletcher merely opened the small jewelry box and selected a pearl necklace and matching earrings. She laid them out on the dresser.

As Tildy quickly dressed, she barely listened to her mother drone on about having been at the caterer’s to double check the quality of the food being served tonight. Tildy pulled the dress down over her head and shimmied it down past her hips. As she was zipping it, her mother came up behind her and ran a hand through Tildy’s hair.

Tildy froze.

Deirdre declared her daughter’s hair dry, miraculously, and left the room. Tildy applied just a tiny bit of makeup and a dash of eyeliner in the silence of her bedroom. Then she slipped on the high heels that had been left on the floor by the bed. She checked her final appearance in the full-length mirror, for all the good it would do, and declared herself ‘good enough.’ She headed downstairs.

The living room was full of Tildy’s parent’s friends. The Fletchers were having their annual Fourth of July party. It was always held the Friday before the holiday so as not to interfere with anyone’s weekend plans. The sun had just set, but it would be an hour before the fireworks.

Tildy followed the sound of her father’s voice toward the patio doors. He was laughing his Banker’s laugh, which is what Tildy had always secretly called it. He never laughed that way at home, not that he ever really laughed. It was a laugh reserved for people associated with the bank that Tildy’s grandfather had owned and then left to her father.

She stepped through the French doors and maneuvered around a waitress carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Tildy’s father was in the middle of a fishing story- his only fishing story.

Her parents had a cabin further north, on the edge of the Black Hills. They owned it for no other reason that Tildy could see except to say they had it. Tildy’s mother spent their entire cabin getaways complaining, and Tildy’s father had Wi-Fi installed partly to appease his wife and partly because an hour at the cabin was as much getting back to nature as he seemed to be able to stomach.

Tildy was fine with or without internet access and simply schlepped her books with her. She mostly read at night though, as she seemed to be the only member of the Fletcher family who actually enjoyed the outdoors. Her days were spent hiking the hills, far away from her parents, which suited Tildy just fine.

Tildy waited patiently knowing better than to interrupt. Apparently, the bank’s youngest associate, Henry Cross, hadn’t quite figured that out. In an ill-advised attempt to ingratiate himself to the boss, he laughed and said that no matter how many times Mr. Fletcher told that story, it was always funny.

The Banker’s laugh must be contagious, thought Tildy. The rest of the men laughed out of surprise more than anything and Tildy’s father joined in, but Tildy didn’t miss the hard set of his jaw. Henry Cross would pay for that remark in some form or other.

Tildy’s father steadfastly refused to finish the story, smiling all the while. The men then shuffled off to inspect the commercial-grade fireworks Tildy’s father had purchased and to question the technician that he’d hired to set them off.

Dad, she called out.

Her father paused, falling behind the group headed out toward the lawn.

Dad–

Not now, Matilda.

Tildy frowned. Obeying was important, but so was what she had to say. There’s something a little off with the car. I noticed–

Matilda, now isn’t the time, he snapped and walked away.

Tildy sighed and headed back into the house. She maneuvered through the guests, to make her way to the kitchen where she hoped to hide out for a bit. The kitchen was perfect because if her mother caught her, Tildy would just say she was checking on the catering. She plucked a crab puff off one of the trays and leaned against the island. It was almost to her lips when she heard a feminine giggle. Tildy’s eyes cut to the large pantry with the closed door. She frowned. Her father was outside in the yard, so that significantly reduced the number of possibilities. She bit her lip instead of the crab puff. Her parent’s Fourth of July party was hardly the time or place for a scene. She pushed off the island and walked quietly past the pantry and back out into the living room.

Tildy stood off to the side, plate in hand to appear occupied, but she wasn’t hungry. Her attempt to blend in with the scenery had obviously failed, however, because Vera Simmons, one of her mother’s friends, spotted her and headed across the room. Tildy hid her frown as her mother moved to intercept the other woman. At 22, Tildy was still obviously not housebroken enough for company. She remembered to affix her party-smile as Vera made her way over.

Matilda, Vera proclaimed, smiling at Deirdre, but continuing toward the younger girl. How are you, darling?

Good, Tildy replied. Thank you for asking.

Any prospects? Vera asked, making a show of looking around. The older woman’s eyes twinkled and Tildy knew she wasn’t talking about career opportunities. It was a useless effort, though, because there weren’t that many people Tildy’s age invited to a Fletcher soiree. In fact, there were only two.

Oh, a few, Deirdre teased as she glanced meaningfully across the room at Tate Carson, who was emerging now from the double doors that separated the living room from the rest of the house.

Vera followed Deirdre’s gaze and smiled. Ah, she said.

Tildy thought the whole charade was ridiculous. Deirdre had made it no secret to anyone who would listen that Tate and Tildy were perfect for each other. Tate’s own parents were thrilled at the prospect of their son marrying into the family that owned the second largest bank in Rapid City.

Tildy was less thrilled. During their senior year at SDSU, she’d been on several dates with Tate, who mostly drank until he got bored and only then did he turn his attention