The Marine (Black Hawke Security #3)

THE SEAL - CHAPTER ONE

JOSH

“J osh, I’ve got Blaze Cartwright on the phone,” my office manager/receptionist/ruler of the universe, Penny, says.

I drop the weight bar with a clang and sit up before reaching for my towel. I notice a few of the team, who are also working out in the Black Hawke gym, glance my way.

“As in the rockstar?” I ask Penny.

“Yup.” She nods.

“Isn’t he retired?” I frown, walking to where my water bottle is and chugging down half of it.

I’m pretty sure people think Navy SEALs are magically chiseled, but that’s so fucking far from the truth I don’t even know where to start. We get our reputation because of the hard work and almost superhuman lengths we had to go through to earn our stripes.

That day was a long time ago, but staying in shape is just as essential since starting Black Hawke Security with Aidan Black, a US Marine.

Hence having a good quality gym in our building in Los Angeles.

“Turn on a radio sometime, Josh.” Ryder laughs as he climbs off the rowing machine and walks over.

I grunt.

I do that a lot. Apparently.

“I have Spotify,” I mutter then drag my eyes back to Penny. “Get a number. Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“I tried that,” she replies, crossing her arms in annoyance.

I swear she’s the only person in the universe who questions me and gives me sass.

The only person I let get away with it.

Maybe because she’s in her seventies and mothers us in a pick your shit up boys or I’ll put it through the shredder kind of way.

It was that or hire someone in her twenties or thirties who would distract my men or be distracted by them.

I’m not stupid. All of them would want to fuck her.

Or just would.

What a disaster that would be.

I’m not interested in female drama of any kind. I fuck them and thank them. Which I think is fair. I don’t want to know about their exes, their family issues, or even how their dog or cat did some cute shit.

Not fucking interested.

I run my towel over my still sweating forehead and ruffle my hair. It’s a little longer than when I was an active SEAL but not long enough so that the dark strands curl.

Annoys the hell out of me when it does that.

“Give him to radio boy here.” I tip my head to Ryder.

“He asked for you. Josh, are you going to take this call or keep Blaze waiting?”

Blaze?

I smirk. “A fan, were you?”

She drops her arms and huffs. “Of course I was. Everyone was. He sold one hundred million records while you were still in diapers.”

Ryder snorts and I shoot him a glare. He holds up his hands, but the smile is still there.

Jesus.

What could a retired—I thought—rock star want me for?

Black Hawke Security, or BHS, is a group of paramilitary experts. We provide services mostly to governments (yes plural) and the rich and famous.

But usually that means a huge name that’s all over TikTok, not some eighties rockstar.

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.

I knew at a certain point in my SEAL career that I could do more out of uniform, but I respect the navy and thank the universe for the opportunity to serve.

Expecting this to be a short conversation and to hand him over to Ryder, I take a sip of my drink and then wipe my mouth. “How can I help you, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Blaze, please.”

“Blaze.”

Jesus, get to the fucking point.

I have a satellite call with the Middle East in twenty minutes and wanted to get in a full workout. That isn’t happening now, so I’ll have to fit in some more reps later tonight.

I might not be in the service anymore, but some days my job can be just as dangerous. Even more so without the backing of the government.

There are pros and cons.

Staying in shape and keeping my fitness at optimal levels keep me alive.

“My daughter’s life is in danger, and I need you to protect her,” he answers.

Fuck no. I’m not a trust fund baby bodyguard.

Jesus fucking Christ, I’m offended.

Did he read my bio? I’m a god damn Navy SEAL. Not a mall cop. No offense to mall cops. Someone has to do that shit.

Not me.

And I don’t look after spoiled rich kids.

I’m about to launch into my well-practiced spiel and transfer him to Ryder’s voicemail when he adds, “I’ll pay you triple. It’s just until they get this guy put back in prison.”

I lift my brows slowly.

He’s got my attention. Not because of the money—although the potential for referrals from Cartwright is huge—but I’m curious about who the escaped convict is. Usually, he would be on the BHS radar, and I’ve not heard a thing.

That’s both a concern—because why the fuck don’t we know—and I wonder who and why it’s been covered up.

And why.

“Keep talking,” I say as I change my Google search to find Blaze’s daughter.

“Eleven years ago, when Sonic Rebel was at the height of its success, my daughter Cassy was eighteen. The media took an interest in her and so did Isaac Miller.”

I stare at my screen as Blaze continues talking.

Christ.

I can see why she turned heads.

A young Cassy Cartright stares at me through my laptop screen, and she’s fucking gorgeous. Not just your usual Hollywood gorgeous. She’s naturally beautiful and lean, with long dark wavy hair and startling green eyes surrounded by thick long lashes.

I’m no stranger to beautiful women. Being six four and built like a brick shithouse I draw them to me like magnets. But beauty aside, there’s something about her stopping me from looking away.

Like the Mona fucking Lisa, I can’t put my finger on it.

Is she smirking? Cheeky?

No.

Is she a dirty little girl, hiding behind an innocent charade? I lean in and study her eyes.

No.

But it’s something and it has my cock twitching.

And my mood darkening.

I click my messenger and send Penny an abrupt message asking why we don’t have information about escaped convict Isaac Miller.

Penny replies. Say please.

Fucking hell.

Please GET me the information.

“So,” Blaze says, after wrapping up. “Isaac Miller was convicted and imprisoned for twenty-five years. Three days ago he escaped, and Cassy refuses to listen to me.”

She’s stubborn.

And stupid.

“Listen, how?” I ask.

“She’s going to work and won’t hire a bodyguard,” Blaze said. “I sent a couple of my team over there and she called the police. Had them removed from the premises for trespassing.”

My lips stretch into a smile.

I shouldn’t. It was irresponsible of her, but it still makes me smile.

“He will kill her, Mr. Hawke. I need someone who will not let Cassy run roughshod over them and can keep her alive. You come highly recommended.”

I’m not surprised.

Much of our work comes from repeat business with governments and personal recommendations. Hollywood is a small industry, and because our head office is in Los Angeles and they can afford us, we are their first call.

Given we didn’t exist when Sonic Rebel was one of the biggest bands in the world, it’s no surprise we don’t have their long-term business.

I see this as a potential opportunity to grab it.

And the woman staring back at me looks like a challenge.

I also don’t like men who harm women. I might not have been listening intently to Blaze as he explained what Isaac did, but I heard enough.

“We’ll make sure she’s protected and connect in with law enforcement to see if we can help track him down,” I say.

I won’t guard her myself, but I’ll meet with them and make sure I keep my word that BHS will keep Cassy Cartwright alive.

“Thank you.”