Mystery Man by Kristen Ashley
I was not adverse to drinking outside a cosmo if the cocktail had ‘opolitan’ somewhere in its name so Tamayopolitans it was.
And lots of them. And lots of food. And lots of me talking.
Hawk’s sharing component of the evening was clearly used up during our car ride. The dinner conversation consisted of Hawk asking questions and me answering them. He might have known everything about me but it was clear he wanted to know how I felt about everything about me so he asked me about my Mom and I told him that, as great as Meredith was, Mom taking off sucked, the fact that she could do it and did. He also asked me about my Dad and I told him all about my Dad, all the reasons why I loved him and all the reasons he was a great Dad (kind of one in the same but I still went into detail about both topics). Ditto with Meredith. The opposite with Ginger, though I did share that regardless of the fact that Ginger was Ginger and there wasn’t a lot to love, she was still my sister and I’d never given up hope that she’d pull her shit together eventually. Until now.
He asked about Cam, Leo and Tracy but it was me, me on my fourth Tamayopolitan, who shared about Troy and how I was worried now that his crush was outed he’d disappear from my life and I’d miss him if he went away.
Hawk also laughed with me when I told a joke or a funny story and I laughed with him when he made some comment that was amusing.
And lastly, he was into everything I said. He was concentrating only on me. It was like every word that poured forth out of my mouth was a piece to the puzzle that was the meaning of life and he had some of the pieces but he wanted to make sure he got them all. His relaxed and comfortable yet intent concentration, the fact that not one woman who walked by caught his attention, in fact, nothing but me caught his attention – there was something about it that felt good, as in really good.
It was easy, it was fun, the food great, the drinks plentiful, my company amusing and hot as all get out and I had fabulous shoes.
It was the best date I’d ever had.
It was after Tamayopolitan number six that we left and the second part of the night started.
We were in the Camaro and purring through the streets of Denver, me wondering where the night would take us next and getting a quiver in a private place at where my wonderings were taking me when Hawk’s phone rang. He took the call, said a few words, flipped his phone shut and swung a uey.
“Gotta go to base, babe, there’s a situation I need a brief on. Urgent. Can you hang in my office?”
At his question, I thought, Oh my God! I get to see his base!
And since I was slightly inebriated, I was pretty certain I didn’t hide my excitement even though the word I chose to use was, “Sure,” it came out peppy and eager. I knew this because when I chanced a glance at him he was grinning.
He drove into the basement garage of a high rise office building in upper downtown, guided me to the elevator, taking me up to the fourteenth floor. The elevator opened and there was a vestibule at either side of which there were two hallways. Hawk went right then right again and down the hall where he chose door number two and used a keycard to access it.
I walked in with him and stopped dead.
Instant cool.
Commando Central!
The windows to the view at the back were darkened even against the evening skyline. In front of me in theater style with elevated platforms were three levels, four workstations at each level, all sorts of knobs and buttons and telephones on the consoles of the workstations. Behind me, rows of screens set into the wall, machinery under them with numerical displays, every one of them filled with some action, people, places and things. There were three offices off the theater area to the left, all but the last one on the top level had floor to ceiling windows that clearly showed what the occupant was doing at all times. To the right, more doors, only two, one was a big conference room with more floor to ceiling windows, one a door but no windows.
The room was filled with commandos, some I’d seen, some I hadn’t, some sitting at workstations, some obviously waiting for Hawk to arrive.
One was “Smoke”.
“Hey Smoke,” I called, waving at him.
Commandos looked to their boots and shuffled their feet.
“Hey Gwen,” Smoke replied.
I tipped my head to the side and asked loudly, “Next time you need to make up a nickname to fake someone out, can I pick it?”
There was more shuffling of feet, Smoke grinned at me and I heard Hawk chuckle then he handed me a keycard and put his hand in the small of my back.
“Babe, top office, hang there. I’ll come get you as soon as I’m done,” he ordered and I looked up at him to see him jerk his head to the dark office at the top.
I nodded and, not thinking, my body and brain having absorbed six Tamayopolitans, my feet encased in Jimmy Choos he’d given me, my belly filled with yummy food he’d bought for me, my night having been spent sitting across the table from him, I put a hand lightly on his abs, lifted up on my toes and touched my mouth to his.
Then I clipped across the shiny black floors, up the side aisle steps and used the keycard to get into his office not realizing I had a bunch of commando eyes following me, some admiring, all curious.
Upon entering and turning on the light I found Hawk’s office was uber-modern and totally clinical. No photos on the desk or credenza. No medals on the walls. No trophies on shelves or plaques displayed. No personal paraphernalia. There weren’t any files on the desk, pencil holders, notepads, not even a computer, just a phone. The whole thing was decorated in black, light gray, black leather and chrome and so clean a doctor could perform surgery there. There were four television monitors on the wall, blank screens. There was a long, black couch. There were two black chairs in front of his desk and a big, high backed swivel one behind it. That was it.
I considered my options for time spent in Hawk’s office and I decided to text Cam and Tracy about the date instead of trying to rifle through drawers. Firstly, if I rifled through drawers that would be intrusive and very wrong – he might have intruded in my life but that didn’t mean I needed to return the favor. Secondly, and more importantly, I figured he maybe had cameras in there and would find out I did it which he probably would frown on and Hawk pissed was a scary thing.
So I sat on the couch and texted Cam and Tracy about the date and received ecstatic texts back from Trace and cautionary texts back from Cam which mostly consisted of her begging me not to imbibe even a drop more alcohol.
Hawk said it wouldn’t take very long but he was wrong. So since it took a long time, I had six Tamayopolitans, my belly was full and I’d had two interrupted nights of sleep during which there were intervals of high emotion including break-ins and firebombs, I eventually passed out on his couch.
I woke up to Hawk lifting me in his arms.
“I can walk,” I mumbled.
“Yeah?” he asked then suggested, “How ‘bout you do that on level ground when you’re in those heels.”
He wanted to carry me? Okay, I was all right with that.
I shoved my forehead in his neck and wrapped one arm around his shoulder, the other around his neck and muttered, “’Kay.”
He walked me down the steps by the console workstations but even when we got to level ground, he didn’t put me down until we were outside the elevator. When he did, I leaned heavily into him.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Six Tamayopolitans,” I explained but I kind of slurred the word “Tamayopolitans” mainly because I was sleepy but also because I was still a little drunk.
He chuckled and pulled me closer.
When we were inside the elevator and I was again pressed into him, I noted, “Your briefing lasted a long time.”
“Reports from the field, things changed, we needed to abort mission, regroup and re-engage.”
This was all scary language my mind refused to process so I lifted my face from his pectoral and tipped my head back to look at him. “Let me guess, I don’t want
He grinned down at me. “No, you don’t want to know.”
“You’re grinning,” I observed. “Does that mean there were no casualties?”
“Not the good guys,” he replied.
Again, scary. Again, mind refused to process. Though, good news.
I planted my cheek in his pectoral again and mumbled, “Good to know.”
He gave me a squeeze. Then he guided me out of the elevator and into the Camaro. Then I fell asleep again.
The last part of the evening was when I woke up because the Camaro had quit purring. He had parked. He helped me out of the car, through a door and I knew one thing. I wasn’t home. I knew something else. I didn’t care. I just wanted to sleep.
So I muttered, “Bed.”
“Gotcha, Sweet Pea.”
Hawk helped me stumble up some stairs that made a lot of noise and I was curious to look around, I just didn’t have the energy. I spied a bed, I groped my way to it, divested myself of little black dress and awesome shoes and face planted in it.
Now it was morning.
Shit.
I pushed up on a hand and shoved my hair out of my face.
Then I stared.
I was in humungous bed in a cavernous building and when I say cavernous I mean cavernous. It had to be a warehouse at one point. I could see daylight pouring in from enormous windows that went from floor to at least three stories up. I could also see there was a dusting of snow sometime in the night. And I could see that the warehouse was in the middle of nowhere, frosted scrub all around, a large creek or small river running close to the building. Further I could see I was on a platform that had an iron railing that was not decorative in the slightest but industrial.
I looked down the foot of the bed and saw a wide expanse of plank floors and at the end, a big cube made of glass block, the door to it opened, a bathroom.
My first stop.
My eyes moved to the floor and I saw my dress and Jimmy Choos tangled with Hawk’s jeans, shirt and boots. Something about that I liked, something about that made my belly squishy.
Oh boy, I was in trouble.
I held the covers up to my breasts, shifted to the side of the bed and dropped my torso down, reaching out. I decided against my dress and grabbed his shirt. Then I lifted up and shrugged it on while in bed. Then I threw the covers back and held it closed with my hand as I got out and wandered to the bathroom, half-dazed from still being sleepy and having a good, relaxing night and half-dazed because I was in Hawk’s lair.
The bathroom was nice, clean, tidy, if utilitarian. No personal touches there either like there weren’t any in the bed area. Just thick, soft midnight blue and dark gray towels on the railings and folded and stacked on shelves over the toilet. The midnight blue and dark gray was a theme, the sheets and comforter were the same colors.
I used the facilities and then washed my hands. Then I looked in the medicine cabinet because you pretty much were thrown out of the girl club if you didn’t snoop at least in the medicine cabinet. I’d given his desk a pass; I had to look in the medicine cabinet.
Toothpaste. Deodorant. Floss. Shave cream. Razors. Two extra toothbrushes. That was it.
I opened a toothbrush and went to town on my teeth. If he was upset I used a toothbrush I’d buy him a new one. I couldn’t afford Jimmy Choos or workmen who would make my living room habitable but I could afford a toothbrush.
I rinsed, flossed and wiped my hands. Then I did a few buttons up on his shirt and folded back the long sleeves. Then I walked out.
When I did, I was feeling nervous. This was different. This wasn’t what we had. This wasn’t fuck buddies or us fighting all the time. We’d had a date. He’d given me shoes. He’d carried me from a burning building. My father didn’t mind walking in to see us in a carnal clinch. Meredith thought he was the bomb. I knew where he worked. I’d met some of his men. What I said at dinner with my parents was important to him.
Now I was in his lair.
My mind rifled through this information and then some as I walked to the stairs and walked down them slowly, spotting him in the kitchen but not looking at him. I was taking in the cavernous space. A seating area in the middle with a big, wide couch, two recliners on either side, a big flatscreen TV all on a thick rug. Weight and exercise equipment down the opposite wall, a lot of it: weight bench, bars of weights, treadmill, stationary bike, rowing machine, elliptical machine. A desk in the far corner at a diagonal, facing the room, this showing personality, papers and files and a laptop on it, he used that desk and it showed, not like the rest of his place. A kitchen that was a big horseshoe bar with stools around it, another countertop against a column of brick wall between gigantic windows, top of the line appliances. In between all of this there were some big rugs on the cement floor but mostly it was just open. Wide open.
Jeez, how on earth did he heat it?
My head turned left and I bit my lip when I saw under the bed platform an area that was definitely Hawk’s space. Floor to platform shelves stuffed full with books and CDs. A very nice stereo. A battered old chair and ottoman that wasn’t like the other furniture or equipment, not new, not stylish. There was a table next it, equally battered. A floor lamp behind the chair, its base going up and the shaded bulb drooping over the chair to provide light to read. A tatty, frayed old rug on the floor, so big, it filled the area. At the end, another cube, this paneled in a warm, worn wood, the door to it closed. That space was like it was from a different world, it didn’t fit, it seemed snug and cozy, inviting.
Interesting.
I hit the bottom of the stairs and could delay no longer.
My eyes turned to him.
He was in the kitchen, bare-chested, coffee mug held aloft, eyes on me.
And in that instant, it hit me.
The pros outweighed the cons. I wasn’t uncertain anymore. I was certain… very certain.
He could be bossy and a lot of what he did freaked me out or pissed me off but when he was sweet, generous, sexy and open it was better than my best daydream.
By far.
And I was good at daydreams, I’d spent a lot of time doing it, I made up the best daydreams ever.
So for reality to surpass that, certainty slotted in and when it did, it held firm.
I rounded the horseshoe and saw he was wearing track pants, black with dark gray stripes down the sides, bare feet.
Hot.
I went to him, right to him and didn’t stop until my body hit his, my arms slid around his waist and I pressed my face in the skin of his chest.
There I mumbled, “Mornin’, baby.”
One of his arms glided around me, pulled me closer and he said into the top of my hair, “Mornin’, Sweet Pea. You sleep okay?”
I turned my head to press my cheek to his chest as I nodded.
“Good,” he murmured, giving me a squeeze.
I squeezed him back.
“Coffee?” he asked and I nodded against his chest again. “How do you take it?”
I slid my cheek against his warm skin as I tilted my head back to look at him, my brows going up when my eyes hit his black ones. “You don’t know?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
“Cream, half a sugar.”
His brows went up this time. “Half a sugar?”
“I save my sugar for when I eat it in cookie dough.”
He chuckled, his arm tightening for a second as he did then he kept looking down at me and I watched his eyes get lazy. I’d never seen that, his eyes getting lazy. It was sensational.
Then he bent his head, touched his lips to mine and let me go.
He moved to the coffeepot at the counter by the wall and I moved to the horseshoe bar and leaned against it.
“I used a toothbrush,” I informed him.
“Good,” he replied, grabbing a mug from some shelves that were fixed to the brick where there was a bunch of shiny, midnight blue stoneware, stainless steel utensils hanging from hooks off th
Guess he didn’t need me to buy him a new toothbrush and it also appeared from the near new look of his eating and cooking supplies, he didn’t cook or eat much at his lair.
“Do you move the furniture back and have football matches on Saturdays with your commandos?” I asked the brown skin over defined muscle of his back as he poured my coffee.
“No,” he answered but I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Rugby?” I went on.
He twisted to the fridge and opened it repeating, “No.”
“Paintball?”
He took out the milk, closed the fridge and looked over his shoulder at me, grinning. “No.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled.
He finished my coffee and brought it to me then rested a hip against the counter, his body facing mine, our bodies touching.
I took a sip from my coffee as he did the same with his.
He made good coffee.
“You make good coffee,” I shared.
He had no response.
I tilted my head back to look at him. “And you’re tidy.”
His brows drew together. “I’m tidy?”
“Your bathroom is clean, there isn’t a tangle of cargos and skintight shirts all over the floor of your bed platform and your stockpiles of guns and ammo have obviously been cleared away.”
The dimples popped out.
Then he replied, “Disordered house, disordered mind, disordered life, babe.”
This was true. I knew it because Dad had taught me that and it was also a principle I lived by which was why my living room drove me batty.
“I can’t picture you cleaning,” I shared.
“I don’t. Janine does it.”
“Janine?”
“Takes care of this place, takes care of base. Janine’s in charge of order so I can focus on other shit.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled.
He employed a lot of people. He drove a top of the line Camaro. He installed elaborate security systems. He could afford expensive, designer shoes. He could heat a cavernous warehouse to the point he could walk around barefoot and bare-chested and I was comfortable in only his shirt and a thong.