Page 16 of Rebel Hawke

The girls screaming.

Benjamin’s wails as the baby reacted to the noise and the chaos.

Scrambling over the couch to try to get to them.

Each successive shot another chance to lose one of them as I tried to find any way to get us out of there alive.

My chest tightens again, and I rub at it, even knowing it won’t do any good.

It never does.

Nothing helps when I’m like this.

The elevator finally dings and opens to the parking garage, and I unlock the Range Rover and slide into the driver’s seat, firing it up and letting the roar of the engine and the rumble of the frame roll through me.

I click on my belt, then back up, and barely wait for the garage door to lift before I slip under it and tear out onto the street.

A light drizzle falls, like it always does this time of year in New Orleans. This late at night—or early morning, more accurately—the streets are eerily still and silent. Weaving through them easily, my hands still shake, clutching the wheel, and by the time I turn down the street that holds The HawkeyeClub, its bright neon sign with the wing logo glowing in the darkness feels like a beacon of hope.

Some might see it as a call to the seedier elements of town, but to the rest of the Hawkes and me, it’s like a second home. And tonight, hopefully, the one place I can find some relief.

My eyes track across the street to the open spot that once held the massive tree that fell during the hurricane and took out the sign. But if you didn’t know what had happened, all you would think is that something died and they needed to plant a new tree to fill the space.

Some days, it feels like that for me, too—like a part of me died that day.

I’d give my life over and over again to save the girls and Benjamin, but I never foresaw what it would do to me physically and mentally when I took that bullet for them.

It’s still too raw to see the end of it.

Which means more and more nights like this…

I pull into the club, parking in one of the spots reserved for family, climb from the car, lock it, and jog to the heavy black door. The low throbbing bass vibrates out through it, and when I open it and step inside, the floorboards under my feet pulse with each note.

At 3:00 in the morning, no one will be here.

Uncle Savage and Dad will be at home asleep. Saint and Caroline won’t be in their offices upstairs, either. Kennedy works late, but notthislate, especially now that she’s shacked up with Cass and Charlotte at his house.

Which means I might actually get a little peace tonight.

But as I scan the bar, my eyes meet a familiar raised dark brow.

Shit.

Coen.

What the fuck is he doing here?

I almost back out of the club, but he’s spotted me now. There’s no getting out without answering a few fucking questions.

Dammit.

Coen watches me approach one of the empty stools with a penetrating gaze, and I sit on it as he grabs a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a glass. He pours me a double and slides it in front of me. “You look like you could use this, and I figure you wouldn’t be here at 3:00 in the morning if you didn’t need it.”

I scowl at him as I take it and bring it to my mouth, downing almost half of it in a single sip. A hiss slips from my lips at the burn, and the heavy, smoky flavor fills my throat and warms my stomach.

His eyes widen. “Wow, that bad, huh?”

Fingering the tumbler, I scan the clientele over my shoulder—mostly regulars and what appears to be a bachelor party—to give me anything to do other than enter this discussion with him. “What are you doing here tonight?”

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