STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  16

  Ember

  “I thought bikers were old dudes with ZZ top beards and pot bellies,” I frown at Striker as we leave the clubhouse. “My dad knew a biker club guy when I was growing up, and it seemed like all his friends fit that description.”

  Striker has been in an off mood for the past fifteen minutes or so, but he snickers at that.

  “Well, that ain’t inaccurate, I guess,” he says. “But the Lords of Carnage is a young club. The Lords used to be a pretty small MC when it started out. A lot of the old guard got killed in a club war before my time. When the dust cleared, there were only three men left: Rock Anthony, Smiley Hunt, and Truck Wallace. They named Rock Anthony the new president, and started again from the ground up. Smiley’s still around — he was a medic in Nam, and he’s our resident doc, though he’s mostly retired now. Truck Wallace died of cancer about ten years ago. I never knew him, but I knew of him.”

  “My God,” I breathe. “You really are a one-percenter club.”

  “We’ve done some shit, yeah,” Striker admits. “I ain’t gonna lie. But we’re movin’ in a new direction. The Lords are working on going legit.”

  I eye him skeptically. “That’s a convenient thing to say to me right now.”

  “I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

  I consider his words. “So, how is ‘going legit’ working out for you?”

  He throws back his head and roars with laughter.

  “Depends on the day, darlin’. Depends on the day.”

  Striker beats me to the passenger side of his SUV and pulls open the door to let me in. I climb up and sink into the seat. When he gets over to his side, I say, “I’d better call Tank and Cady about the birth certificate. Tank has been dragging his feet about taking a blood test, even though I told him we should do it even if the certificate came back showing him as the father. Now that we know it doesn’t, there’s no reason to wait anymore.”

  Striker doesn’t say anything in reply. He starts the engine and pulls out into traffic as I continue to scan the two pages Tweak gave me.

  “Look here, Striker,” I say, pointing even though he’s driving. “One of the addresses Tweak has here is a listing for Jess’s parents. It says here this is their last known address, a rental place. As of two years ago.” I swivel to face him. “I want to go see them.”

  He glances over at me, then turns back to the road. “Jess’s parents? How far away is it?”

  I tell him.

  “I’m supposed to be guarding you,” he protests.

  “You will be, if you come with me.”

  Striker’s brow knits. “I dunno. This seems more like detective work. Is this normally what family attorneys do? Don’t you just send a registered letter or something?”

  “It’s not usual, I’ll grant you. But…” I trail off, not knowing how to continue. I can’t explain it to him, exactly. I just want to look into Jess’s whereabouts myself. I feel like being a detective. Maybe it’s because I have a little more of a personal interest in their situation, having not only met Cady, Tank, and Wren, but knowing something about the hell they’ve already gone through to be a family. Cady was smart to give me that window into their world. She’s definitely hooked me in.

  “Come on,” I enthuse. “We’re trying to keep Wren with Tank, right? So, we should be doing this research to help them. You said you know Jess, right?”

  Striker glances over at me sharply. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing specifically,” I say, a little taken aback. “Except that it might help to have someone with me who actually knows what she looks like. Someone who would recognize her quickly if we happen to run into her somewhere. Maybe she’d talk to you easier than she would me.”

  Striker huffs out a laugh. “Not fuckin’ likely.”

  “Okay, maybe not. But come on, Striker. Do this to help Tank. We need to find Jess if at all possible, to see if we can get her to sign a waiver releasing her parental rights. If we can’t do that, then we’ll have to petition the court to terminate her rights. That could take months. Maybe even more than a year.” I bite my lip. “It will be hard to keep Wren with Tank and Cady during that time if we have to go that route, Striker. Really hard. Normally she’d be placed in foster care. And there’s no guarantee Tank and Cady would ever get her back.”

  That gets his attention. “Are you saying they could take her away from him permanently? Tank’s her father!”

  “Technically, Striker, we don’t know that.” I tilt my head at him. “All we really know is that Jess dumped Wren off on him. And you told me yourself she had an ulterior motive, to help that guy ruin your club.”

  “It can’t be true that Tank ain’t her father,” he mutters.

  “Once Tank gets a blood test, we’ll know for sure. But even with a positive paternity test, getting him custody isn’t a given. Which is why the best case scenario is if we could get Jess to sign rights over to him.”

  A second passes. Striker gives me a single curt nod to let me know he’ll do it. But I notice he’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

  “What’s the deal, Striker?” I ask quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me. You’re tense as a bowstring.”

  “There’s plenty of shit I don’t tell you,” he tosses back.

  “You know what I mean,” I say, ignoring his flash of anger. “What’s got you so mad? It’s not just this custody situation. There’s something more, isn’t there?”

  He lets out a loud breath. “I’m just pissed that this whole thing is so fuckin’ complicated, is all,” he grits out.

  I know it’s a lie. But I also know he’s not going to tell me. I decide to let it go for now.

  Five minutes later, Striker pulls his SUV up in my driveway. As he rolls to a stop, I come to the awkward realization that he’s still on duty right now. It feels weird to just let him just stay out here at his post guarding my house. And honestly, I’ve been having a good time with him. I wish it would feel normal to invite him in — to maybe hang out and watch movies or something.

  “Hey.” Striker’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Your lawn kinda needs mowing. Want me to do it?”

  “Oh! No, I mean… I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I protest.

  “Look, I’m gonna be out here anyway. Be better for me to have something to do. Gets kinda boring staring at your front door.” I open my mouth, but he interrupts me. “Don’t argue.” A corner of his mouth curves upward. “Just show me where your mower is.”

  So I do. It’s a newish, fancy machine that Mark bought, which is still here because he’s living in an apartment right now. Striker makes a joke about how it’s nicer than my car, then pulls off his leather cut and carefully lays it over a saw horse. Once he checks to make sure there’s enough gas to do the whole lawn, I go inside to greet Bert and then call Tank and Cady.

  I try Cady’s cell first. She answers on the second ring. I give her the news about the birth certificate results. Cady is clearly disappointed, but she works to stay upbeat as I talk to her about the next step of having a paternity test done.

  “Since you and Tank are concerned about making sure Wren stays with you, the best way to do this right now is not to go through the courts right now, but to get the test done yourself through an accredited lab,” I say. “That way, we can find out what the results are first, before having to present them to a judge, and you can decide what to do from there.”

  “Okay.” Cady sounds nervous. “Where would we do that? A hospital?”

  “There’s a diagnostic center outside of Cincinnati, in a suburb called Fairfield. I recommend you go through them. I can text you the info. In the meantime, Striker introduced me to Tweak, who’s helping me with information to track down Jess.”

  As I talk to her, I idly pace the living room. Striker is passing back and forth with the lawn mower. He’s taken off
his shirt, giving me a view that would make me blush if he knew I was looking at him. A fine sheen of sweat accentuates his muscular torso and upper body. The tattoos that cover his chest and arms somehow make him even more handsome and rugged. Good God, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a sexier man in my life. He could be a model for some super-masculine cologne or something, except that his brand of manliness is completely unself-conscious. It’s just raw, rough man, pure and simple.

  As he pushes the mower past the window, I realize I’m openly staring. I rarely get to see him in an unguarded moment, and the change is striking. Right now, as he does this mindless activity, the lines that normally form around his narrowed eyes and on his forehead have smoothed. He almost seems at peace. I’ve only ever seen him this relaxed a handful of times. When he’s playing with Bert. When I saw him with Wren at the clubhouse earlier. Maybe a little bit with Benji, too.

  My heart does a weird little squeeze.

  My emotions are all over the place about Striker as I end the call with Cady and retreat to the back of the house. Somehow, I almost preferred it when I found Striker nothing but infuriating. Little by little, I’ve grown comfortable with his gruff, cocky attitude, and with the kinder, gentler man it conceals. And my lord, the more I see of that freaking fantastic body, the harder it is to deny that my feelings for him have gotten much more complicated.

  I’m attracted to him. Very attracted, in fact.

  And that’s not good at all.

  17

  Ember

  I’m in my home office working on answering some emails when the lawn mower stops. A few seconds later, a cacophony of shouting, scuffling, and barking jolts me up out of my chair.

  “What in God’s name?” I cry, my words echoing in the office.

  A loud thump, and more barking are the only answer.

  Cursing, I fly out of the room and down the stairs, to find Striker, shirtless and sweaty in the front foyer, pinning my husband against the wall. One of his hands has Mark’s arm twisted behind his back. The other is clamped around his neck, pressing his face to the wall. Behind Striker, Bert is barking in alarm, not sure whom to attack and whom to defend.

  “My God, what’s going on?” I shout, skidding to a stop in the foyer.

  “I caught this guy tryin’ to break in,” Striker growls, glancing over at me with murder in his eyes.

  “You lunatic!” Mark yelps. “I wasn’t breaking in! I walked in the damn front door!”

  “You don’t just break into a woman’s house without knocking, motherfucker,” Striker hisses.

  “This is my house!” Mark shouts, struggling ineffectually against Striker’s iron grip. “This is my wife! Who the hell are you?”

  Striker ignores the question. “You don’t live here anymore. I know you and Ember are separated. Which means, you extend the fucking courtesy to your soon-to-be-ex-wife and ring. The. Goddamn. Doorbell!”

  Striker punctuates his point by shoving Mark’s face harder against the wall with every syllable. I’m half-horrified, half-elated at the sight.

  “Ember!” Mark yells, then winces against the pain as Striker shoves his arm further up his back. “Get this guy off of me!”

  “Oh! Um, Striker, it’s okay. You can let him go.” I feel a bubble of laughter welling up inside me, but I do my best to shove it back down.

  Striker releases him. Mark jerks away, reaches up to massage his shoulder.

  Striker, still naked from the waist up and sweaty from mowing the lawn, grabs the T-shirt he’s stuffed into the waistband of his jeans. He uses it to wipe off his face and chest, taut muscles rippling as he moves. Mark notices it, too; he shifts he weight from one foot to the other and clears his throat.

  The difference between the two of them right now couldn’t be more pronounced. Dressed in a pressed, starched polo shirt, immaculate chinos, Mark looks like he just stepped off the golf course except for his expensive loafers. Striker, on the other hand, looks like precisely what he is: a man most at home astride a gleaming Harley. Someone people bet on in a fighting ring. A bad boy through and through.

  And right now, having seen how he protected me from an intruder — even if it is only my estranged husband — I’m more attracted to him than ever.

  It’s only when Mark bends over with a huff that I notice the object lying on the ground. He reaches to pick up the bouquet and then straightens, all but thrusting it into my hand.

  “For my wife,” Mark bites out, glaring at Striker. “Why would an intruder bring flowers to a break-in?”

  Striker shrugs. “As a prop. Criminals do that shit all the time. Some dress up like the cable guy, some bring flowers.”

  Mark sneers. “If anyone looks like a criminal, it’s you.”

  Striker ignores him. “So this is the knucklehead you’re separated from?” he asks me bluntly.

  Mark masks his anger with a snigger. “Ember, I didn’t know you had hired help for the lawn work.”

  “He’s not hired help, Mark,” I admonish him. “He’s a friend. Striker Rossi, this is Mark Pante. My… husband,” I finish lamely.

  Striker’s eyes widen. “Panty?” he repeats, and then explodes with laughter.

  Mark’s face draws tight. “With an ‘e’,” he corrects acidly.

  Striker continues to laugh for a second or two, then manages to get himself under control. “Sure, sure, man,” he chortles. “However you wanna spell it is fine with me.”

  “Really?” Mark shoots back. “This from a man named Striker? What are you, an eighties hair-band reject?”

  Striker just keeps chuckling, wiping at his eyes.

  It’s safe to say Mark is not used to being treated like this. He’s used to being the golden child, the king of fraternity row. Guys like Striker fix his BMW, and they don’t mouth back to him. It’s clear Mark doesn’t know what to do. Any idiot could see Striker could knock his ass flat in a fight, though, and Mark is smart enough to know that.

  A tiny, immature part of me has to admit that I’m enjoying his discomfort. Immensely.

  “Ember,” he hisses at me. “Can we please talk alone, without the lawn boy here?”

  I shift my eyes to Striker, who’s staring at me.

  “You good?” he asks.

  I nod. “It’s fine.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go put the mower away. You call me if you need me for anything.” Striker looks at Mark, sucks his teeth. “See ya ‘round, Panty.”

  Striker turns on his heel and swaggers outside, still bare-chested and magnificent.

  I set the flowers on the table beside the vase.

  “You told that… felon we’re separated?” Mark barks as soon as Striker is out of hearing range. “Who else have you told?”

  “He’s not a felon, Mark,” I say, exasperated — though to be honest, I don’t exactly know that. “And only Margot knows, and now Striker.”

  “Who is he, anyway?” A horrified grimace crosses his face. “You’re not dating him, are you?”

  “No! Good lord, Mark,” I say coloring. “He’s just a friend. My mower was on the fritz, so he fixed it.” I lie. “And then he offered to cut the grass.”

  “How in God’s name did you make a friend like that?” Mark’s lip curls in a show of disdain, but I know him well enough to see him masking something else. Anger. Jealousy. Uncertainty.

  I resist the urge to lead him on, because when Mark is jealous, he gets mean. He doesn’t like it when other people have things he doesn’t have.

  “Mark, what are you doing here?” I say instead. “You could have just called me, you know.”

  I realize as I say this that Striker is right: I really don’t want Mark to show up here unannounced anymore. I hate it when he does. I know it’s still his house, too, but he acts like I’m his property, and that has to stop. And even though Striker completely overreacted, I’m actually pretty glad he’s here right now. As long as Striker is around, Mark won’t push my boundaries as far as he usually does.

  “You nee
d some fresh-cut flowers for your table vase,” Mark insists, pointing at the bouquet. “The artificial ones are tacky.”

  “Flowers make me sneeze,” I shoot back. When he blinks in surprise, my inner self does a little cheer. “And actually, I think I’m going to get rid of that vase altogether.”

  Mark’s nostrils flare. “Fletcher and Gayle missed you last night at dinner,” he reproaches me. “And so did I.”

  Ah. I had forgotten about the dinner with them. I’m guessing he came here to make me feel guilty about it. Well, I’m not interested.

  “That’s nice. I hope you told them hello for me,” I say breezily. “Anything else?”

  “Well… I thought that since you weren’t willing to join me last night, in advance of the gala this Wednesday, I’d ask again if you would go with me. Please. It’s one small thing. You’re going anyway. Why not just accept a ride from me?”

  “Because I don’t want to, Mark,” I reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish up in my office. If that’s all you came to talk to me about, then I’ll see you out.”

  “There is one more thing, actually.” The scowl etched on his face eases. “I have a bit of good news, for both of us.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mark flashes me his best ingratiating smile, the one I’ve seen him use on his clients. “I don’t know if you remember my great uncle Harold. He died about a year ago?”

  I knit my brows together. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I admit.

  “Well, Harold left me a plot of land in his will, which I had more or less forgotten about until recently. It’s in Massachusetts, not far from Cape Cod. Five acres, unbuilt. Apparently, its assessed value is in the neighborhood of one-hundred thousand dollars.”

  I blink at him. “Wow. So, are you planning to sell it?”

  “Well, there’s the rub, and the reason I’m here.” He gives me a conspiratorial smirk. “It turns out, there are two years of back taxes owed on the property, which I’ll need to pay before I sell the land. But I have a bit of a cash flow problem.”