HAWK (Lords of Carnage MC) Read online

  HAWK

  A Lords of Carnage MC Romance

  Daphne Loveling

  Contents

  Mailing list

  1. Samantha

  2. Samantha

  3. Hawk

  4. Samantha

  5. Hawk

  6. Samantha

  7. Samantha

  8. Hawk

  9. Samantha

  10. Samantha

  11. Hawk

  12. Hawk

  13. Samantha

  14. Hawk

  15. Samantha

  16. Samantha

  17. Hawk

  18. Samantha

  19. Hawk

  20. Hawk

  21. Samantha

  22. Hawk

  23. Hawk

  24. Samantha

  25. Samantha

  26. Samantha

  27. Hawk

  28. Samantha

  29. Hawk

  30. Samantha

  31. Hawk

  32. Samantha

  33. Hawk

  34. Hawk

  35. Samantha

  Epilogue

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  About Daphne Loveling

  Books by Daphne Loveling

  Dedication

  Copyright

  One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

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  1

  Samantha

  This is, without question, the weirdest professional gig of my life.

  And as a freelance photographer who once shot a complete set of obedience school graduation pictures for a poodle and a corgi, that’s saying something.

  Maybe the weirdest thing of all is that it shouldn’t be all that weird.

  I mean, after all, it’s just a wedding. And not even a dog wedding. Just a normal human wedding.

  But normal is the absolute last thing this is.

  I got this gig the way I’ve gotten many of my jobs since I moved to Tanner Springs five months ago: chance and word of mouth. One definite advantage of living here is there aren’t a lot of professional photographers in a town this size. So when I tell people I meet what I do for a living, they’re often really excited to meet me and ask me about my services, either for themselves or for someone else.

  In this case, I was at Wee Haven KinderCare doing a shoot when I met Jenna Abbott. Wee Haven had hired me to do some new publicity photos for their website and promotional materials. A lot of photographers don’t like to work with little kids, but personally, I think it’s a blast. Sure, it’s definitely more challenging than older kids and adults, but some of the best photos I’ve ever taken have been of children doing something that I’m actually trying not to get them to do. So, I’ve learned to just go with the flow, take a ton of pics, and trust in serendipity.

  One of the little kids at Wee Haven I just couldn’t stop photographing was a little nugget named Mariana. She was around a year old, with long, wavy blond hair and the most beautiful sunny, heart-melting smile. Little Mariana was just learning how to walk, and it was just about the cutest thing I had ever seen. I snapped way too many pics of her toddling around unsteadily on her chubby little legs, her hair catching a stray beam of sunlight shining in through the window. She was one of the most photogenic kids I’d ever met — a fact I made sure to mention to her mother when I had her sign the release forms to use Mariana’s photos.

  “Oh, gosh, thanks!” The mother, who told me her name was Jenna, blushed when I shook her hand.

  “I’m serious,” I told her. “Quite honestly, Mariana could easily find work as a child model. Or even an actor.”

  “Oh, wow. Thanks, but… I’m not sure I see myself as a hard-driven stage mom,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It sounds kind of… gross, actually.”

  I grinned. “I know what you mean. But I thought I should mention it, anyway. Mariana is a natural.” I pulled up some of the shots of her on the screen of my digital camera so Jenna could take a look. “See what I mean?”

  Jenna’s eyebrows went up as I flipped through the images. “Those are really good. Even the candid shots are just beautifully framed and lit.” She tilted her head at me, a curious look in her eye. “Do you do weddings?”

  “Of course,” I said immediately. I reached into my back pocket for one of my business cards. “There’s a whole gallery of wedding photos on my website, if you want to take a look.”

  Jenna took the card without looking at it. “No need,” she shrugged with a wide smile. “Just from looking at these shots of Mariana, I can already tell you’re twice as good as any of the other photographers I’ve been considering. How much do you charge?”

  I explained my rates to her, and said that since I was relatively new in town I was discounting some of my services to get my name out there and established.

  “Oh, my God, that’s so reasonable,” she said, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe you’re the best photographer I’ve found and also the cheapest. Oh!” Her look changed to one of dismay. “But what if you’re not available on the day! Oh, my God, please tell me you’re free next month on the thirteenth!”

  I reached into my back pocket again, this time for my phone. “I don’t think I have anything then,” I frowned, “But let me take a look.”

  A quick consult with my calendar told me that I was indeed free. Relief flooded Jenna’s features. “Oh, thank God. Well, you’re not free anymore,” she said firmly. “Put me down right now. Jenna Abbott. Soon to be Watkins.”

  “Congratulations, Jenna.” I tapped her name into my calendar and pressed save. “You’re in.”

  The wedding day didn’t start out all that strangely. I mean, sure, Jenna warned me things might be a little “unconventional.” Apparently, the groom is the Sergeant at Arms (whatever that means) of the local motorcycle club in town, The Lords of Carnage. I have to admit, the name of the club did kind of give me some pause, even though I tried to play it cool.

  “It’ll be a simple ceremony,” Jenna told me when we met at one of the coffee shops to talk over what she wanted. “The president of the club — Rock — is going to marry us. The wedding and reception are going to be outside, at one of the other guys’ farms outside of town.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Mostly, I just want a few posed shots, and then someone to be there to take photos that document the rest of the day,” she said.

  Usually, when brides say they want “simple,” they don’t really mean it. Like, they mean only four bridesmaids instead of seven, or only two-hundred people instead of the original four-hundred that her mom wants. But in Jenna’s case it was clear to me she meant what she said. She showed me pictures of her dress, which was a simple but beautiful white sheath. “I don’t have bridesmaids with matchy-matchy dresses or anything like that,” she laughed. “We’re just going to have Mariana and my son Noah stand up with us. The ceremony will be pretty short, and like I said, it’s outside at Geno’s farm. There’s not going to be too much in the way of decoration. It’s just a short ceremony, and then a long party.”

  “Sounds ideal,” I murmured. I’ve never been much for big ceremonies myself. What Jenna was describing sounded a lot like what I would want for my own wedding. If I ever had any plans to get married, that is. Which I definitely do not.

  Jenna asked me if I’d be okay staying through the reception so I could document the whole day. I assured her I was more than fine with that.

  Then she hesitated for a moment.

  “So…” she said slowl
y. “The club can get a little… rowdy, sometimes. But they’re great guys, really, and it’s all in good fun.”

  “No worries,” I grinned. “How rowdy could it be?”

  How rowdy, indeed.

  2

  Samantha

  The address Jenna gives me to the farm is completely unfamiliar to me, so thank God for Google Maps. Unlike most weddings, where I visit the space before the ceremony and carefully choreograph the kinds of pictures they want before, during and after, Jenna didn’t feel the need for all that preparation. “We’ll get a few formal photos after the ceremony,” she told me breezily when I suggested it. “Like I said, I just want you there to document the day. It will all work out.”

  Jenna, it must be said, is the single least bridezilla-y bride I have ever met.

  When I arrive at the farm, there are already quite a few motorcycles and cars parked there, in the large front yard to the left side of the driveway. I pull my car off to one side, away from all the bikes, and open up the hatch. Grabbing the two bags holding my camera and other equipment, I sling the straps over one shoulder and slam the hatch shut. The farmhouse is set far back from the road, so I have a bit of a hike along the gravel driveway to get to it. But I’m used to lugging my stuff around.

  As I come closer, I notice that there’s already a crowd of maybe three or four dozen people gathered. Most of the men are dressed in jeans, motorcycle boots and leather vests sporting the logo of their motorcycle club and a variety of patches. It’s like a sea of testosterone — bulging muscles, tattoos snaking up and down biceps, and hard jaws with varying degrees of facial hair. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, forcing myself not to be intimidated. You can do this, Sam, I say to myself in my inner pep-talk voice. You’re the photographer. You’re supposed to be here.

  Off to one side, I notice a man who must be the groom, judging from the way the others are circled around him. Cas, Jenna said his name is. He’s holy cow gorgeous, with dark, thick hair that falls over his forehead and a close-cropped beard. He’s standing in a group with five other men, and little Mariana’s in his arms. The juxtaposition of this tattooed giant of a man holding a tiny blond girl should be jarring, but somehow, it isn’t as weird as all that. Mariana is playing with the patches on his vest. As I watch them, Cas reaches over and carefully moves the single red rose pinned to where his boutonnière would be so she won’t pull it off or stick it in her mouth.

  I tear my eyes away from the scene, regretful that I don't have my camera out in time to capture the moment. I take a quick scan of the crowd to see what else I can notice right off about the wedding party. There are women here, too, of course, but my attention had been captured by the men first. Now, as I glance around, I see that they’re mostly dressed in tight, revealing dresses and heels that are way too tall and spiky to be tromping around in the grass. Except for a handful of kids running around, the crowd looks more like they’re waiting to get back into a bar after a fire alarm has gone off than a wedding party. But hell, I once photographed a wedding where everyone — including the bride, the groom, and the officiant — was dressed like late-era Elvis. So who am I to judge?

  I look around for Jenna, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I imagine she’s in the house getting ready. I’m just about to walk over to see if I can find her when a big, burly, barrel-chested man approaches me.

  “Hey, you must be the photographer,” he grunts, nodding down toward my camera.

  I smile. “Hi. I’m Sam. Samantha.” I hesitate, then hold out my hand.

  Burly guy shakes it carefully, and I can tell he’s trying not to crush my fingers. “Rock,” he says simply. “I’m the one doing the marrying.”

  “Oh.” I glance at his leather vest, and notice a patch on it with the word “president.”

  “I’ll have one of the women let Jenna know you’re here,” he continues, gesturing to a tall brunette in impossibly high heels. “We’ll get started in a couple minutes.”

  “Got it.” I set my equipment bag down and grab the lenses I’ll be needing. The brunette teeters over to Rock, who murmurs a few words to her, and then turns toward the house. I busy myself with my light meters and check that everything’s in working order. I’m just finishing up when Rock walks over to a small clearing and raises his voice.

  “Okay, we’re gonna get started,” he calls. “Gather around, and make sure to make a path for the bride.”

  The crowd gathers around to stand in a half-circle in front of Rock, laughing and talking as they go. Many of the men have bottles of beer in their hands, and some of the women are drinking, too. This is definitely the most laid-back wedding I’ve ever been to. I raise my camera and sneak a few quick snaps of some of the more colorful characters, sinking into my role as documenter of what will be one of the most important days of Jenna and Cas’s lives.

  Off to the side of where the crowd has gathered sits a single chair. As I watch, one of the club members strides solemnly up to it, carrying an acoustic guitar. He’s strikingly handsome, with deeply tanned skin, dirty blond hair, and tattoos covering most of the skin on his thickly muscled arms. Reflexively, I pull the focus back and take a few shots of the way his body moves, and the raw, masculine beauty of him.

  Then, as I continue to snap, he sits down with the guitar and begins to play.

  The music is not at all what you’d expect to come from a huge, moderately dangerous-looking man. The crowd hushes as his fingers strum and pluck out a beautiful instrumental that immediately draws all eyes and ears to him.

  The melody is soft and haunting. I could swear I’ve heard somewhere before, but can’t quite place it. For a moment I just stand there, captivated by its beauty, and by the quiet command of the man playing it. Then with a start, I realized I’ve stopped taking photos. Stop daydreaming, Sam. You’ve got a job to do.

  Moving as unobtrusively as I can, I crouch down and begin snapping shots of the guitarist as he plays, doing my best to capture the magic of the moment. The click of the shutter is so quiet I’m the only one who can hear it, and I hold down the button and take dozens of pics in rapid succession, not wanting to miss one single moment.

  Then, as I watch him from my safe, voyeuristic place behind the lens, the man glances up. His eyes, a deep, piercing hazel color, lock on the camera. On me.

  A jolt of heat bursts through me, followed by a wave of embarrassment. Usually when my subjects look directly at the camera, it doesn’t feel like anything personal. I know I’m safe and unimportant behind the lens. When people look at the camera, they’re generally imagining the people who will eventually see the photo, and hoping like hell they won’t end up looking like a weirdo. But this is completely different. It feels like the guitarist’s gaze is boring right through the camera — like he’s looking right at me. Even though I know that can’t be the case. He’s just looking at the lens, like anyone else. He’s just realized he’s being photographed. That’s all there is to it.

  But those eyes… they’re just… mesmerizing. Dazedly, I lower the lens for a second. His gaze doesn’t move at all. With a shock, I realize he really is looking at me.

  I almost drop the camera, and start forward to stop it from hitting the ground. When I glance back up, I catch just the faintest shadow of a smile on his face. Then, almost like I imagined the whole thing, he looks back down at the guitar and continues to play.

  My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I shakily raise the camera again and half-stumble to my feet. Part of it is the adrenaline rush from almost breaking my best camera. But most of it is from being caught so unaware — and somehow, feeling so exposed — by a simple look.

  I take a deep breath and will myself to concentrate. This is the most important part of the wedding, and I owe it to Jenna not to screw it up. Pushing away my embarrassment, I move into position to photograph the groom’s and bride’s entrance.

  I’m just in time to start shooting as Cas starts to walk down the makeshift aisle created by the parting of the crow
d. Little Mariana is still on his hip, dressed in a tiny pink flowered sundress. Walking next to Cas, tiny hand engulfed in his larger one, is a little boy who must be their son Noah. The image is just priceless — I couldn’t have done better if I’d posed them myself. I snap a few shots of the three of them from off to one side, switch lenses, then take a few steps forward and snap a few more. Mariana sees me and waves enthusiastically. The crowd looks over at me and laughs. I blush and wave back, then disappear behind the camera again. I try my best to be invisible when I’m working weddings.

  Cas continues down the aisle, and a couple of the men slap him on the shoulder as he walks by. When he gets to Rock, the two of them shake hands. Cas leans down and says something to Noah.

  “She’s coming!” cries a female voice from the back.

  Then, almost as one person, the crowd turns to face the house, where the bride has appeared.

  Jenna walks through the crowd, her face radiant. She’s paired her sheath dress with simple white flats. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, with just a few tiny flowers arranged artfully toward the crown of her head. I’m snapping photos like a madwoman, not wanting to miss a single second. When she gets to the end and joins her little family, there’s a look of such sweet, pure love between Cas and Jenna that a big lump of emotion rises in my throat. A wave of sadness hits me like my own personal tidal wave, but I force it aside. I don’t have time to be letting this wedding get me thinking about the past. I’m a professional, and today is all about Jenna and Cas.

  The hand that isn’t holding Mariana take’s Jenna’s. She gives her groom a brilliant, dazzling smile. Then the four of them turn together to face Rock.

  The ceremony itself is short and simple, like Jenna said it would be. Rock does a gruff but effective job of officiating. Jenna and Cas wrote their own vows, and as they both promise to love and cherish each other, I take advantage of the moment to get close-ups of both of them staring into the eyes of the person they are vowing to spend the rest of their lives with.