Page 55

Letting out a sigh, I toss my towel, miss the basket, and follow a muttering Penny out to my office.
“Put him through,” I say, continuing past her to the big office down the end of the hall.
“Put a shirt on!” she calls out.
I shake my head as I shut the door and reach for a black BSE t-shirt and tug it on, covering my offensive looking eight pack and tribal tattoos.
I grab a bottle of electrolytes out of my mini fridge then flop in the big chair behind my desk as the phone rings.
“Josh Hawke,” I answer.
“Mr. Hawke. Blaze Cartwright. I need your help,” he says.
Interesting.
I tap the keyboard to wake up my computer and Google his name.
I know who he is.
I know his music. Everyone does.
Penny wasn’t lying about the one hundred million album sales. Blaze also has one Grammy, and his band Sonic Rebel has three. In fact, I’d argue nearly everyone on the planet knows who Blaze Cartwright, lead singer of Sonic Rebel, is.
The Beatles, Led Zeplin, Aerosmith, Sonic Rebel.
He lost his wife, the love of his life, tragically to cancer two years ago. I knew that, but as I type in his name, I see that he’s come out of retirement after a decade and released a new album.
I read the news.
I don’t need to listen to the radio.
Thanks Ryder, you dick.
Still, I’m confused why he’d be asking for me in person. If he’s wanting to use our bodyguard services, Penny would’ve handed him to Ryder.
Aidan heads up the government contracts. Ryder manages the bodyguard services teams, and me? I look after our corporate clientele—you’d be surprised the interesting needs they have—and the black ops stuff.
Which doesn’t exist.
Off books stuff.
Working with some of the most powerful people in the world. Many of whom also don’t exist.
It’s complicated and better if I don’t explain.
And that you don’t know.
Blaze Cartright is likely one of those precious celebrities who wants to talk to the person whose name is on the door. Or in our case, the website.
Black Hawke Security.
I’m Josh Hawke. A Navy SEAL and dangerous asshole if my former colleagues are to be believed—and they should—and arrogant, if the women I reject at the end of the night are to believed.
Again, they should.
Frankly, I don’t care what people think of me.
My priorities are my elite team of former special ops and fulfilling the contracts which bring in millions (and millions!) of dollars into my company every year. Money aside, we protect the vulnerable and rid the world of evil.