The minute Hawks hears the voicemail you left—short, direct, normal, minus the unmistakable quiver in your voice—is the minute his feet hit the ground running. Sweltering heat blanketing the city doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t hold a candle for how he sprints, how he turns on a dime to make it to you in time. His shoes skid along the sidewalks; his headphones clap around his ears and muffle everything but his mind.
Hawks is used to the stares he gets. The wings protruding from his back are an easy target, after all, and his face is a magnet for buzzing reporters, craving the freshly new number two’s opinion on this and that. Stuff that doesn’t matter right now. But the stares are intrusive now, like everyone digs around in his face to find the answers they’re hunting for.
And then, oh yeah, he has wings—so he uses them. The air usually feels good ruffling through his feathers, but today it’s like he’s glidin