Page 29 of Rebel Hawke

“I need you to come by the club.”

It isn’t a question; it’s anorder.And when Gabe Anderson gives orders, he expects them to be followed. He may have retired from the Rangers, but he never lost that military mentality that ordered his life for so long.

I return to drying my hair and body, exhaustion starting to settle at the most inconvenient time. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Fuck.

“Can’t you just tell me what—”

“Atlas Anderson-Hawke, what about ‘I need you at the fucking club’ do you not understand?”

Shit.

There it is—that mix of anger and disappointment that I’m not leaping to do what he asks without question. I’ve heard it so many times during my life that it shouldn’t still get to me, but it does. That same weight settles on my shoulders, knowing I’ve disappointed him. Again.

“Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Click.

He ends the call, and I let out a frustrated groan and run my hands through my still-damp hair.

What the fuck was that all about?

Whatever is going on, he clearly didn’t want to discuss it over the phone.

That does not bode well.

I finish drying myself as I make my way into my closet and grab a T-shirt and jeans without even looking at them. At two in the morning, no one is going to be examining my attire. I tug on the pants, zipping my fly with one hand while I toss my towel into the hamper.

As I cross the room toward my nightstand, I tug my shirt over my head with a little wince at the twinge in my shoulder.

For one brief second, I consider calling Astrid to see if she knows what’s going on, but if Dad wants her to know, she’ll be there and find out the same as I will.

I slide my phone and wallet into my back pockets, slip on my shoes, and hurry down the steps to open the door to the hallway. The moment I step out, Isaac steps from his condo across the hall.

His eyes meet mine, filled with concern. “Did my dad call you, too?”

I pull my door closed behind me. “Mine did.”

“Shit.” He does the same, waiting for it to click into place before he turns to me. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Wish I fucking knew…”

Isaac offers a grim look as we walk to the elevator. “It can’t be good.”

“That was my thought, too.”

I should have known it was too good to be true—this apparent reprieve from major drama and life-threatening bullshit we’ve had the last few months.

This family always seems to get sucked into some sort of problem every time we think we can finally relax and take a deep breath.

And we’ve been breathing far too easily lately.

WREN

The numberof ceiling tiles doesn’t change no matter how many times I count them tonight—sixty-four.

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