Chapter One
Hawk
The doorbell rings.
I ignore it and roll over in bed. Nobody I know is stupid enough to come to my house this early.
Just when I doze off again, the pounding on the front door starts. It mimics the throbbing in my head. I’m no stranger to hangovers, but at least I have the luxury of sleeping them off whenever I need to.
“Hawk!” someone screams loudly enough to reach my bedroom at the back of the house.
Sitting up, I curse the sharp pain behind my eyes. “Someone better have fucking died,” I say to no one as I pull on wrinkled sweatpants that lie in a ball next to my bed.
I check the time. 7:09 am. Too goddamn early. And on a Monday. Everyone at work knows not to expect me on Monday mornings. If I decide to go to work on a Monday, it’s always in the afternoon. Same with Fridays. As far as I’m concerned, the weekends start on Thursday and don’t end until I say they end.
Ambling my way to the front door, I squint (which hurts like a mother) to keep out the morning light streaming through the massive picture windows in my great room. I stop and peek at my newly constructed pool including all the impressive bells and whistles and landscaping that go along with it. I wasn’t about to let Quinn Thompson have the best pool in town. My setup puts that pussy-whipped cowboy to shame.
Not that my beef is with Quinn, per se, but his wife is best friends with Tag. And Tag is a Calloway. McQuaids hate all Calloways; therefore I hate Quinn by association.
My fuzzy brain reminds me that my mother is a Calloway, something I’ve tried to ignore these past dozen or so years. She’ll never let me live down the fact that I was the only one of her children who didn’t attend her second wedding—to none other than Jonah Calloway, uncle to my archenemies Tag, Jaxon, and Cooper. And I’ll never let her forget that by marrying into that derelict family, she effectively cut ties with me.
This town has a proverbial line drawn right down the middle that stems back to a bet made by one of my ancestors and a Calloway. It resulted in our town, that previously bore the name McQuaid Plat, being renamed to Calloway Creek. It’s bullshit. We own this town, yet their name appears on a crap ton of it.
If you’re a McQuaid, it’s incumbent upon you to hate the Calloways. If you’re a Cruz, it’s more than likely you hate them as well, even though they are technically Calloway descendants in addition to being related to us McQuaids. Conversely, if you’re a Montana or an Ashford, all basically cousins to the Calloways, you hate all the McQuaids.
There are some exceptions to this. Namely my rich-as-shit idiotic grandfather, my brainwashed sister, and of course Jonah and my mom, who all try to keep the peace in their own pathetic ways.
The doorbell rings again, this time in quick succession. I complete my walk to the door, still pissed as hell that someone has the balls to wake me. I make a mental note to have a gate installed at the beginning of the driveway.
“Hawk!” a shrill voice shouts from the other side of the door.
I rip the door open. “What the ever-loving fuck could be so goddamn important at the butt-crack of dawn?”
It’s Melissa Greer. She visibly deflates when she sees me. I scan her from head to toe. Her hair is unkempt, her makeup scarce, her eyes as puffy as a blowfish. The shirt she’s wearing is wrinkled as if it were yesterday’s, possibly picked up off the floor before doing a walk of shame.
Melissa Greer doing a walk of shame? Doubtful, but I suppose stranger things have happened. It would explain the hair and the makeup, but not the eyes. Unless maybe she was dumped after a one-nighter. Oh, shit. Did Hunter or Hudson one-and-done her and she’s come here to chew me out as if I give two shits what my brothers do?
And then there’s her knuckles which are red from pounding on my door.
“Christ, Melissa. You look worse than I do and I may have downed an entire bottle of tequila last night. What the hell is it?” I turn away and shuffle into the kitchen, not really caring if she follows or not. Thankfully, I had the good sense to program my coffee maker to come on early. A fresh pot is waiting for me as if it knew I’d be up at this ungodly hour.
I grab a cup from the cabinet, not bothering to offer one to Melissa, who may or may not be behind me.
My answer comes when a kitchen chair scrapes across the hardwood. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s sitting. I hear her weight crash upon it like it’s the only thing keeping her from hitting the floor.
After pouring my cup, I turn and lean against the counter. “If you’re here to tell me what a douchebag one of my brothers is, don’t bother. There’s nothing you could tell me that I haven’t already heard. Not to mention I’m not my brothers’ keeper and I couldn’t care less what they do and don’t do with the women they date. Just as they don’t care about what I do with mine.”
“This isn’t about them.” She swallows and it looks painful. “It’s Shannon.”
Inwardly, my eyes roll. Shannon Greer. Melissa’s stepsister. Must it always come to her? If Shannon isn’t incessantly hounding me herself, she has her impish sister or sickeningly cheerful friends coming after me.
Shannon and I hooked up last year, and ever since then she’s been trying to extort money from me. I wanted to take a paternity test and prove the zygote she claims she’s carrying isn’t mine. Hudson, who’s a pregnancy doctor, said it could be done even while she was knocked up. And the fact that she never consented means she good and well knows mine is not the sperm that impregnated her. She’s always been after a meal ticket. I knew that. Everyone did. I blame tequila, my overactive cock, and Shannon’s salacious rack for my night of weakness.
I sip my coffee, glaring at her over the rim. “If this is some lame attempt to guilt me into giving her—”
“She’s dead.”
Another sip warms my throat as I digest her words. “What do you mean, she’s dead?”
“Just that. She’s dead. She died.” She shoots me a venomous stare. “Giving birth to your child.”
I set my cup down with enough force to make her jump, irritated over having been accused of not only being the kid’s father, but of somehow having that implication make me responsible for killing her. Still, I’m not a complete jerk. I can see she’s torn up over this. “Hey, I’m sorry about your sister, or uh, whatever you call her. That sucks.”
“Don’t you even want to know about the baby?”
Part of me wants this conversation to end right now. Because I have a feeling deep down I know where it’s headed. But I haven’t had enough caffeine to fully comprehend anything. “I’m guessing it died along with her.”
“It didn’t.”
I pick up my coffee and take a large swallow. “Not sure why that has you pounding on my door.”
“Can we stop with the games, Hawk? Shannon is dead. Gone. She was barely twenty-five years old and her life is over. Don’t you get that? And we were more than stepsisters. We were best friends. We told each other everything. Yes, she slept around. Yes, she wanted a guy who could take care of her. But that didn’t make her a bad person. And I’m one hundred percent sure the baby is yours. She’d have told me if there was a chance it wasn’t.”