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one and only morning he’d ever been able to wake up beside her . . .
    • • •
    “Good morning,” Dorothy had said, stretching her body.
    Hawk had already been awake, he was always up with the sun, and had spent the last two hours just staring down at her naked body, watching her sleep.
    It had been the first time they’d ever spent the night together. Between taking care of her daughter and her ridiculous relationship with Jase, spending time together wasn’t an easy feat for Dorothy. But for once it was just the two of them; the clubhouse was empty. For the first time what he felt for her, how fucking deep those feelings went, felt real.
    “ Did you hear me?” She laughed and he loved it. Just hearing her laugh. He fucking loved it. “I said good morning.”
    Instead of answering her , he pushed her over and onto her back, looking his fill at her tight little body covered in all that soft, creamy skin. Dorothy immediately tried to cover herself, but he pinned her arms down and quickly rolled on top of her.
    Then he had tickled her.
    A nd as she’d squirmed beneath him, howling with laughter, he’d whispered, “Good morning.”
    • • •
    Closing in on his destination, Hawk hit his blinker and turned his bike onto the exit headed for downtown Las Vegas. The memory evaporated and just as quickly the emptiness returned.
    Another fifteen minutes later , he pulled up behind an old abandoned shipping warehouse. Hawk shut off his engine and glanced around anxiously at his old stomping grounds. It wasn’t that he disliked coming to Las Vegas; quite the opposite, actually. Whenever Deuce needed one of the boys to make a run to Sin City, he always volunteered. He might look very different from the kid he’d once been, and sound different, but Vegas would always feel like home.
    Because technically Vegas was home, and he wasn’t truly who he’d spent the past two and a half decades pretending to be.
    Yeah, he was a biker. Just another patch on a totem pole full of patched, leather-wearing bikers living as criminals, not for the money or even for enjoyment but because that was all they knew. It was how they survived, how they paid the bills and cared for their families. It wasn’t about greed or excess, it was about living a certain way, being a certain kind of man who didn’t have to bow down to laws and the government who enforced them. It was a brotherhood, a camaraderie. It was about really, truly living your life the way you wanted to live it.
    It was about . . .
    Freedom.
    But Hawk didn’t have that same freedom. It wasn’t the same for him. And it never would be.
    Like a lot of his brothers, Hawk was just another piece of shit Deuce had fished from the gutter . But unlike Cox or Dirty, Hawk hadn’t had a hard life spent living on the streets. At least, not at first. But neither did his upbringing resemble Ripper’s, who’d lived a good, solid life, the American dream, until he’d lost his parents at the age of seventeen.
    No, Hawk had been born a spoiled and privileged son of a bitch, his mother a cocaine-addicted burlesque dancer who’d fatally overdosed when he was only three years old, his father an infamous member of the Bratva, a Russian mob boss, the one and only Avgust Polachev of the Polachev cartel.
    For eighteen years he ’d been a gluttonous whore, reveling in a life of overindulgence, seduction, and sin. Spoiled was putting it mildly. He’d had more money than he could have spent in ten lifetimes, as well as cars, drugs, booze, and women, all at his self-destructive disposal. He’d had it all.
    Until he ’d lost it all.
    The summer he turned eighteen , his father was gunned down inside the man’s own home during an FBI raid. His father had gotten greedy and that greed had made him careless, and that carelessness had landed his father with an undercover federal agent on his crew. Actually, several undercover agents.
    After the FBI, fitted in bulletproof vests and armed to the teeth,