Page 33 of Savage Guardian

He swigged the beer, the cool bitterness barely touching his thirst.

Because he wasn’t thirsty for beer. He was thirsty for something he couldn’t have. Forsomeonehe couldn’t have.

Cursing, he changed from his monkey suit into jeans, t-shirt, and his kutte, then threw open the sliding French door leading to his back deck, and dropped his large frame into one of the handmade Adirondack chairs facing the view of the mountains in the distance.

He kicked his legs up, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, the beer forgotten in his fist.

His cell rang in his kutte pocket and he gritted his teeth at the name flashing on the screen.

With the shit day he’d had so far, he didn’t feel like dealing with more, so the idea of hitting the button to ignore the call was strong. However, he was still a Savage Raider, still had loyalty and duty to the club, so when a detective from the LVPD called him, as Sergeant-at-Arms, he would fucking answer.

“Yeah? This better be fucking good,” he snarled into the phone.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, McGregor? Got a club wench bent over your bike right now? Should I call back in two minutes when you’re done?”

“Fuck you, Benson,” he growled, pissed at the insinuation that he’d bend just any club bitch over his bike and that he would only last two minutes. “Did you just call to insult me, or is there a reason you’re ruining my night?”

A weighty sigh from the other end of the line made Hawk tense, dropping his legs from where they were propped up on the railing of his balcony overlooking his one acre yard so he could sit up straight.

His stomach rolling, he asked, “What?” Suddenly not feeling that beer at all, he put it on the wooden table next to his chair and wiped the condensation from the bottle on his shirt.

“What do you know about the place on Jackson and Maraval?”

Hawk let the words sink through his head before something finally clicked.

“You mean the studio? Junkbox?” The same one where Carrie was supposed to be working on her album but—according to her—she wasn’t needed there because they were just dealing with the finishing touches before the live concert, and Teddy, the producer, said he didn’t need her there anymore.

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?” Hawk asked, a low thrum of apprehension pulsed through him.

“There was an all hands call there this afternoon. Some woman called it in.”

Invisible bands of fear tightened in his chest.

“What woman?” Carrie had been with him all day, so the only woman who would be there was Fae. She often ran errands between the hotel suite and the studio, spending more hours at the studio than anyone.

“A Fae McCabe,” Detective Benson answered, unaware that he’d just lit a fire of fear and rage in Hawk’s belly.

“What happened? What was the call about?” Hawk was on his feet, grabbing his bike keys and wallet from the kitchen counter, and out the door before Benson could answer.

“She’d called in a package…with a human head inside it.”

“The fuck?!” Hawk bellowed, red hovering over his gaze. Why hadn’t she called him? Why was he learning about something like this from the fucking police when he should have been her first call? It was his job to keep her safe.

She’s not one of your clients, dickhead.

What didthatmatter? Sheknewshe could trust him, thathecould protect her.

Does she? After last night and this morning, how can she really trust anything you say or do? She probably hates you now.

Fuck! He should have been the one racing to her, to comfort her fears, to protect her and shield her from whatever the hell was happening. It didn’t matter that his trust in her had taken a hit after his conversation with Carrie that morning; he was still a man who looked out for people who needed it.

“Apparently, her sister is one of your clients,” Benson continued. The unnecessary reminder that Fae wasnothis client was a spike of guilt to his heart.

“Yeah, she is—but what does that matter when Fae was the one who called in the…head?” He mounted his bike, his cellphone clamped between his ear and his shoulder so he could hold the handlebars as he backed the bike down his driveway.

“It matters because I wouldn’t be calling you with this otherwise. The package with the head inside was addressed to: My Darling Aoibheal.”

---