Hawke's Game Read online

  The Julia Hawke series:

  Book Two

  Hawke’s Game

  By Natasha West

  Copyright © 2016 by Natasha West

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  I was sitting in my car, parked on a residential road, a laptop in front of me, a luke-warm latte on the dash. I’d been there half an hour and I was getting a little cold but I had to stay put. My fingers were the only part of me that stayed warm as I tapped furiously at the laptop keyboard in front of me. As I typed, I kept my eye on the blustery suburban street, on the door of number sixty three in particular. I was waiting for its resident to pop his head out.

  I pushed on with my work, a news article, as I waited. I might have to wait for hours so it seemed sensible to utilise my time. And since all I really wanted was a quote, it made sense to have the story that went around it ready to go. It was to be a thousand words on the man that lived at number sixty three, and it would be appear early tomorrow on The Informer news website.

  I was mid-sentence when I heard the clunk of a door shutting and I looked up to see Stephen Griffin coming out. He was about fifty, balding, with a hang dog face that I knew well from my research. I slapped the laptop shut and dashed out to greet him at his gate.

  He looked up in surprise as I appeared and his first reaction was a smile. An attractive woman was waiting to speak to him and he was pleased because he didn’t know why yet.

  ‘Mr Griffin, my name is Julia Hawke and I write for The Informer. I was wondering if I could have a quick chat about your resignation from the council.’

  I pointed my phone in his direction and hit record, ready for my quote. Stephen Griffin’s face dropped, as well it should. He’d resigned from a fairly high up position in Medford City Council a few weeks ago with a statement citing health problems. But a little birdie had gotten in touch with The Informer to let them know that the real reason was that he’d been caught using public funds for some very private habits. Prostitutes, in the main. From what I could ascertain, it hadn’t been much money in terms of a city budget, less than twenty thousand, so when it had come to light within the upper echelons of the council, it was decided on balance that he should be allowed to leave quietly rather than try to get the money back through criminal proceedings. Obviously someone in the know had not agreed that he should be permitted to creep out the back door with his dignity intact, so here I was.

  ‘Is it true that your real reason for leaving was financial misconduct?’

  His tired face drained of its remaining colour and it was clearly more than a rumour.

  ‘I… I don’t know what… I don’t…’ he stuttered. I let him struggle for a reply, hoping the surprise attack would catch him off guard enough to give me a good quote but eventually he simply said ‘No comment’ and slipped out of his gate, past me.

  While a ‘no comment’ was something, implying a man who could not defend his actions, I wanted something a little better and I followed him to his car.

  ‘Look, I’m not judging. We all get caught with our hand in the cookie jar sometimes.’

  That was an understatement. My own hand had very much been caught in said jar, which is why I was now doorstepping some sad little man who’d let a small amount of power go to his head.

  ‘This story is going to break whether you speak or not, so if I were you, I’d get ahead of it.’

  He was now in his car, but he hadn’t turned the engine on. He was considering my advice.

  ‘Mr Griffin, if you give me something now, I’ll take it easy on you.’

  He sighed and wound his window down. I pointed my phone at his mouth.

  ‘It was a misunderstanding. I was going to pay it back. Honestly.’

  I smiled at him and for a moment he looked relieved, as if he thought he’d said the best thing he could. Maybe he even believed it. But I didn’t. What fool would?

  ‘Thanks Mr Griffin. The article will appear on The Informer website tomorrow, but if I were you, I’d get your defense together. There might be charges as a result of it.’

  It was sound advice but he looked at me in horror and hurriedly turn his engine on. I watched as the car moved off down the road, too fast. I hoped he wouldn’t have an accident. But in the end, I thought, that would be down to him. He’d made his choices. We all did.

  As I climbed into my car, I thought about my own little scandal. It had been eighteen months since I’d lost my job as a writing professor at Medford University for sleeping with my female first year students. Seven students over seven years, one every academic year. Pretty tame numbers in the larger scheme but still very much crossing the line. They’d been a fun distraction, a game with rules that I’d devised to stop the administration finding out. But in the end, it hadn’t saved me. The University had found out about a couple of them and I’d been sacked. Shortly after, the story had broken in the local news and several more former pupils (not to mention former lovers) had come forward with their stories and then it had gone viral. ‘The Slutty Professor’, they’d called me. I knew why the story had appeal. I’m tall and statuesque, with thick long dark hair, large brown eyes and perfect skin. I look a lot younger than my thirty eight years. Combine my beauty with my tendency to dress in good tailored clothing, it means I photograph very well. If that’s arrogant, I don’t care. I don’t believe in false modesty. Combined those pictures with a story of my seduction of young women and my eventual downfall? Pure click bait.

  I still don’t know who had leaked the story to the press initially but really it could have been anyone. The early news of my sacking (and why) had spread across the campus like wildfire. Anyone looking to make a little money from my bad behaviour only had to pick up the phone. No, on second thought, not anyone. Not the last girl I’d had an affair with, Penny. She never would have done that to me, I knew. She’d stayed silent throughout it all.

  I didn’t want to think about that too much so I opened my laptop and threw myself into the article, finishing it forty five minutes later and sending it to my editor.

  I’d been unemployed before I’d gone viral but even after it had died down, finding a new job had been practically impossible. All it would take was a quick google to find out my professional conduct was a little subpar.

  So I’d reached out to old contacts, anyone who might be able to find me something to pay the bills. Lo and behold, a friend from my student days, Jacob Hunt, had gotten in touch. He’d been working as a journalist since we’d graduated and had somehow found himself running The Informer. He never mentioned my little public shaming, but I knew that’s why he’d sought me out, offering me as much freelance work as I could handle. He no doubt thought my notoriety might add to his numbers. Looking at it more kindly, perhaps he just though I had a singular insight into the types of articles The Informer published, which tended toward the salacious.

  And who was I to turn it down? It wasn’t something I would have ever envisioned for myself, but it paid better than teaching had and it afforded me the time to work on my real passion, my novel. It was an account of my time at Medford, converted into fiction of course, and I’d poured everything into it. And it had been time wel
l spent because I had a contract with Barret and Foster, a mid-size publisher. They were planning to publish later this year. Hopefully that meant that soon I could afford to write literature full time and slide quietly from the world of gossip and scandal. I’d had enough of it for one life time, heaven knew.

  I closed my laptop and set off for home, thinking about Stephen Griffin. I felt bad for him in a way, and I didn’t wish him any ill. Whatever lay ahead of him, it wouldn’t be a punishment for wrong doing. It would be for the stupidity of getting caught. And I knew the price for that as well as anyone. But I also knew that it wasn’t something impossible to come back from. I had scraped back from it and a good life lay before me. With that in mind, I pulled into my driveway to see the lights on, creating the picture of warmth. My girlfriend was at home awaiting me.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Julia, that you?’

  I slid out of my coat, calling ‘Yeah. And I brought wine.’

  ‘Thank god. The day I’ve had.’

  Anyone that knows me might be a bit surprised to find me living with somebody. I’ve been a shade commitment phobic for quite a few years. But after I’d been sacked, it had seemed like maybe the cost of casual fun hadn’t been worth the price. No, that was a lie, it had stopped being fun. That’s the truth. The last girl, Penny, she had taken it beyond fun. Although I hadn’t remotely meant to, I’d fallen in love with her. And after everything had come out, I’d lost her. But it had opened my eyes to what had been missing from my life and after the furore had died down from the sacking and I’d started to get my life back together, it seemed like that was the last piece of the puzzle. A steady relationship with an age appropriate girlfriend.

  And then, as though I’d sent out some sort of love bat-signal, I was at a party and I was introduced to Lauren McKenzie. I was attracted to her immediately. She was a petite brunette, my age, cutely attractive with a full, sensual mouth. I’ve always been a sucker for a good mouth. She also had a niceness that I found appealing. It sounds like a slightly boring adjective but nice was something that felt missing from my life after the year I’d had.

  As we talked, it transpired she was a doctor, as well as single. She slipped that fact in early in the conversation and I knew the attraction was mutual. We talked for quite a while and I told her that I worked as a journalist for the moment, but that I’d just signed a deal with a publisher for my book. She seemed impressed. But as the evening progressed, I started to realise that at some point, my notoriety might be an obstacle. So I told her, that first night of knowing her, all of it. My time at Medford, the sacking, the whole thing. She listened with quiet interest. And at the end of the night, I gave her my number and I thought ‘Well, that’s that.’

  But the next day she texted me, asking me to dinner. I was amazed but I said yes. And the date went well but I felt compelled at the end of the evening to ask her if she wasn’t a little put off by my history. She said that it had given her a little pause but that she decided that I was worth taking a chance on. And that was it, we went on from there. After four months, I took a big risk and asked her to move in. We were still so new but she seemed like the right person to take the leap with. And things had been good in the last couple of months of domesticity. It was nice. There’s that word again. Nice. But really, nice is good.

  I wandered into the kitchen and there were pans on the boil.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that, I was going to order something. You can’t possibly have the energy to cook a meal after a hard day at the surgery?’

  Lauren smiled at me as she stirred the contents of a pan.

  ‘Some of us actually like to cook, Julia. We don’t just think of it as a chore. We find it therapeutic.’

  ‘If you say so. I’m certainly not going to try and talk you out of cooking for me.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. Pour me a glass instead.’

  I grabbed some glasses and poured us both a drink, handing one to her. She took it and kissed me briefly.

  ‘How was the stakeout?’

  ‘You’re making it sound sexier than it is.’

  ‘Everything is sexy when you do it.’

  I smiled and sipped my wine as Lauren began to pull plates out of the cupboards.

  ‘I got the quote.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he was going to pay it back’ I said wryly.

  ‘You don’t think he would have?’

  I looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘I sincerely doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  I laughed, bemused.

  ‘You’re not serious? Of course he wasn’t going to pay it back. It’s not like he needed the money to keep a roof over his head or pay his wife’s medical bills. He stole to pay for sex with expensive prostitutes. That tells me he’s not the most upright of citizens.’

  ‘So somebody can’t make a mistake and then try to correct it?’

  I didn’t like the direction this was going in.

  ‘Yes, people make mistakes. But most people’s mistakes don’t end in criminal proceedings.’

  ‘I’m just saying, maybe we should reserve judgment.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m not judging him. Anyone can get seduced. I just think that any thoughts he had about paying it back came after he was caught. Not before. If he’d gotten away with it, he probably would have just taken more. People don’t change until they have to.’

  Lauren went quiet at that and I wondered if I’d said too much. I decided to change the subject.

  ‘It’s my meeting tomorrow.’

  She smiled, seemingly happy for the opportunity to talk about something else.

  ‘I know. Exciting!’

  ‘Not really. They’re just going to talk to me about the marketing aspect of it.’

  ‘I don’t care. I think it’s amazing that you’re going to be published.’

  I took a chug from my glass.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means we’ll see if anyone reads the thing’ I said, trying to be nonchalant. She saw straight through it.

  ‘It’s good, Julia. People are going to read it.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a little…

  I paused and Lauren waited for my adjective. I made my voice light.

  ‘… Sordid?’

  ‘Just because the central character is a bit sleazy, doesn’t make it a sleazy book.’

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Lauren seemed to realise her mistake because she began to backtrack immediately.

  ‘Not, not sleazy, that’s not the word I wanted.’

  ‘But it’s the word you chose.’

  ‘I just meant, she’s…’

  ‘No, you’re right. She’s sleazy. And then she learns her lesson.’

  Lauren looked at me seriously.

  ‘Because she has to or wants to?’

  I’d had enough or treading around the elephant in the room.

  ‘If you want to ask me something, just ask it.’

  She shook her head and turned back to the food. It was open to me then to go on the offensive. She’d attacked me, however covertly, after all. But I didn’t want an argument. Lauren and I were not a dramatic couple and I wanted it to stay that way. So I simply sat down. She turned back to the oven and began plating the food. I sat down at the table and she joined me with the meal. I began to eat quickly, glad of a reason not to talk anymore. I felt like everything we said was coming out wrong. Or I hoped it was wrong.

  Later, after supper and a lot of wine, we were still sat at the table. Although we had stayed away from hot topics, the atmosphere had been a little stilted. But I knew how I could get things back on track. I threw back my remaining wine and stood. I put my hand out to Lauren.

  ‘Come on. We’re going to bed.’

  She looked at her watch surprised.

  ‘But I’m not tired yet.’

  I gave her a slow smile.

  ‘I didn�
��t say we were going to sleep.’

  I didn’t wait for a reaction, I wasn’t giving her time to think. It was happening. I grabbed her hand and began to pull her toward the stairs. I felt no resistance.

  Once we were in the dimly lit bedroom, I turned to her and kissed her long and deep and I sensed her melting into it. I ran my hands up her back and I felt her shiver and I knew whatever little bump we’d experienced tonight would be paved over shortly. She wanted to be mine, she wanted to be taken by me. It was how we always played.

  I pushed her onto the bed and climbed on top of her. Her eyes closed and she waited for what I might do next. I began to unbutton her shirt, slowly, one button at a time, letting her anticipation build, letting her need build. I unveiled her small, perky breasts, concealed in her bra, but not for long. I unsnapped the front clasp with one fluid motion and pulled the garment away, pushing my mouth onto her left nipple, flicking my tongue over it. She moaned and I let my teeth nip lightly at the flesh, her moan becoming a whimper. I played with her left breast with my mouth while pinching the other breast with my hand and I felt her back arch slightly. Her hands slid into my hair, pulling lightly with desire. I could feel the tension between us slip away.

  I moved my mouth up her body, arriving at her neck, caressing her ear with my tongue and I felt her arms around my back, holding me tightly. She pushed her body against mine and began to grind against me as we kissed. The pressure was just right and I felt a sigh slip from me into Lauren’s ear. She liked the sound, I could tell, so I didn’t hold back my own pleasure as we moved together.

  Then I stopped and climbed off the bed and she watched as I began to pull off my clothes, not putting on a show exactly, but taking it slowly, giving her time to really want this. The more she wanted it, the more she would be consumed by the moment, not the past. Not my past.

  Lauren grabbed the opportunity to take off her own remaining clothes and she lay before me, waiting. I took a second to look at her and examine what was stirring about this moment. She was beautiful, and she wanted me. And she was a good person. That last thought made me hesitate. But she reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me on top of her and things quickly leapt up in passion. I soon forgot my own worries about the evening. I was doing what I was good at, and that was better than trying to work out whatever issue had been haunting us all evening. And to me, a lot more effective, not to mention pleasurable.