My stomach has started to churn. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose his only brother like that.
“You said he’s in Chicago now?”
“Richie graduated from college last year. DePaul. He’s goin’ on to get his MBA, I think. He doesn’t want to know me now.” Striker grips the steering wheel, hard. “I can’t blame him, though. What the hell do I have to offer a kid like that, except bad memories and embarrassment?”
“You have a lot to offer, Striker,” I insist.
“Nah. I don’t.” He exhales. “Ah hell, I can’t pretend his life ain’t better without me. But Richie was the only family I had left. And the system fuckin’ stole him from me, Ember. I know I ain’t worth much, but I loved that kid. I did everything I could for him.”
My heart is breaking for him. My God, of course Striker would look at me as part of the same system that took his last remaining family away from him. After what he’s experienced, how can I blame him for not trusting me not to do the same with Tank and Wren?
On impulse, I reach over and put a hand on Striker’s forearm. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.
“I would never be party to helping anyone take Wren away from Tank,” I whisper. “I hope you know that.”
“I know it now.” Striker turns his head, looks at me, hard. His dark eyes smolder like coal. “I believe it now.”
On the way back to Tanner Springs, we decide to drive through Reynoldsville, and stop at the bar and grill on Main Street that Jessica’s father told us about. The bartender tells us Jessica’s friend Payton no longer works there, and that no one has a forwarding address for her. We do get Payton’s last name from him, though, and Striker promises to give that to Tweak when we get back. Like I did with Jessica’s parents, I hand the bartender my card, and ask him to call me if anyone at the bar hears anything from Payton, or about Jessica’s current whereabouts.
By now it’s dinnertime, and Striker and I decide to grab dinner there at the bar. I’m famished, and end up completely annihilating a burger and onion rings. Striker gives me a little shit about it, but when I start to feel self-conscious he apologizes and tells me he’s just joking.
“I like that you don’t eat like a bird. Women should have curves,” he pronounces, eyeing me. “You got no problems in that department.”
After dinner, we drive back to Tanner Springs. I notice that Striker grows quieter the closer we get to home. Once inside the city limits, he drives straight to my office so he can pick up his bike, then follows me back to my place.
“I’m gonna call Jude and have him come early for his shift,” he tells me as he walks me to my front door. “I need to get going to the clubhouse so I can talk to Tweak about what we found out.”
“Can’t that wait until tomorrow?” I ask, hating myself for sounding so needy. “You could come in and hang out for a while. There’s still some beer of yours in the fridge.”
“I can’t.” Striker sounds strained as I unlock my door. I push it open and turn to him in the doorway.
“Why not?” I guess it’s the lawyer in me, but the direct approach often gives me the upper hand, so I just go for it. “What’s up, Striker? You’ve been weird ever since we left the bar in Reynoldsville. Did I do something wrong?”
I could have anticipated any number of reactions, but the one I get totally surprises me.
Striker laughs.
“Wrong?” he chokes, sounding ragged. He rakes a rough hand over his face and hair. “What you’re doin’ is the exact opposite of wrong.”
“Then what…”
My words are cut off by Striker pushing me against the doorframe. His rough hands grip my shoulders, then slide downward over the fabric of my skirt, pulling me to him. His mouth comes down on mine, possessive, powerful. I moan, my eyes fluttering closed, as he devours me, tongue insistent, demanding to know me, to take me.
Time stops, gravity tilts on its axis, my core is throbbing as Striker’s hardness makes itself known. My skin turns to liquid fire as my arms wrap around his neck, instantly giving in to everything, anything he wants…
Then, suddenly, his mouth rips away from mine. Striker’s beard shadow scratches my cheek as his lips graze my skin.
“Goddamnit, if I come in there right now, I’m gonna rip that painted-on suit you’re wearing off of you piece by piece, and fuck you until you scream,” he hisses against my ear.
I swallow, my heart thudding in my ears.
“Maybe you should,” I whisper.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Goddamnit, Ember, don’t tease me.”
“I’m not,” I gasp. “I want this. I want you to.”
His fingers grip the fabric of my skirt as his mouth sinks back to mine. I whimper, the throb between my legs getting more intense. The skirt is up over my thighs, to my waist, and a second later Striker dips a finger in between my skin and the fabric of my panties. I moan at how good it feels. “Striker,” I breathe. “Please.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he says hoarsely.
The heat of his mouth sears my the skin of my neck as his fingertips begin to stroke. I gasp and wind my arms around his neck, raising my hips and silently begging him to give me what my body needs so desperately. He slides one finger inside me, then out, coating me with my juices. A jolt of pleasure shoots through me, and he growls in response. He circles my throbbing clit, finding the center of my need. I cry out. His lips crash down on mine, devouring me as I writhe beneath him, and I’m so close that before I realize what’s happening I ignite into a white-hot heat and in seconds I’m crashing over the edge as I spasm and release under his touch.
I’m clinging to him as though he’s the only thing tethering me to the earth, still struggling to catch my breath, when Striker brings his mouth to my ear, roughness of his beard branding me.
“Jesus Christ, Ember Wells,” he rasps. “You’re playin’ with fire.”
Then he releases me, and his body is gone, leaving my skin cold and lonely in his wake.
Striker stomps down the front walk toward his bike. Speechless, I watch him go. It’s only when I can no longer hear the sound of his engine in the distance that I close the door, trembling and confused.
23
Ember
I wake up the next morning to see Jude at his usual post across the street from my house, smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone.
“Mornin’, Ember. Mornin’, Bert,” he says when I emerge from the house for our morning walk. Jude leans over and gives Bert a scruff on the chin. Bert responds by leaning his whole body into Jude, tongue lolling with happiness and tail swishing back and forth like a windshield wiper. I swear, I don’t know what it is about these Lords of Carnage men, but Bert seems to love them.
“You’re here a little later than usual,” I say casually. “It’s almost six-thirty. Isn’t this supposed to be Striker’s shift?”
“Strike’s off today,” Jude replies. “I got you until nine this mornin’, then Hale’s takin’ over for the day. You met him yet?”
“Ummm… maybe?” I answer. “I think I met him at the clubhouse.”
“He’s a moody fucker — ‘scuse my language — but he’s a good dude.” Jude gives me one of his patented lady-killer grins. This boy’s young, but I bet he’s already crushing women’s hearts. “He’s on until later tonight, then I’m back.”
“Oh.” So I won’t see Striker at all today, then. I turn away, trying to hide my disappointment, and then berate myself for feeling upset about this.
Yes, I’ll admit that after he left last night, I spent the rest of the evening locked in the memory of what happened between us.
And as I lay there in the dark in my bed, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if it’s just attraction we feel for each other, or something else.
And dammit, even though it’s probably a horrible idea, there’s a part of me that wants to know. Wants to try. Wants more.
I spent most of last night tossing and turning, nervously thinking abo
ut what it would be like to see him this morning. I should be relieved that it’s Jude here instead of Tank. But instead, I’m disappointed.
Gah! Why did I ever have to meet Striker Rossi?
Since Striker has arranged for other people to take his shifts, I don’t see him at all that day, or the next day, either. I try to keep my mind off of him by busying myself with other clients’ cases, and more or less ignoring Tank and Cady’s.
I tell myself I’m waiting to hear from Tank about the results of his paternity test before I go any farther. But I’m also hoping Striker will call me with information from Tweak on Jess’s whereabouts.
No such luck on that front, however. In fact, it’s mid-afternoon on Wednesday before I hear from Striker again. I’m just leaving the office to go home and get ready for the charity gala when I hear the buzz of a text.
What time 2nite?
My heart starts to race as I realize he’s still planning on coming with me. I don’t know if that means he’s just going to drive me there and wait outside, but I’m too nervous to ask for any details. Instead, I reply with what I hope is a non-anxious, non-needy tone:
Pick me up at seven?
After a moment I get his answer:
Will do.
Well, okay, then. At least I know I have a ride.
I spend more time than usual getting ready for the evening, and it’s definitely not because there are people at the gala I want to impress. I found my dress a couple of weeks ago at one of my favorite consignment shops. I actually still have a number of expensive gowns in my closet from my days being married to Mark, but I didn’t want to wear the memories that came with them. The dress I ended up buying is classy, but just edgy enough to feel like a revolt against the moneyed, staid atmosphere I’ll be walking into tonight. It’s conservatively cut in the front, with the back dipping into a low, sexy V all the way to my waist. It’s a little tighter than most dresses I would normally choose, but the fabric still has enough give to make it comfortable whether I’m standing or sitting.
After I’ve put my hair up into a high chignon, I slide on the dress and select a long pair of dangling earrings as my only jewelry. A pair of silver heels complete my look. It’s just before seven o’clock as I consider my reflection in the full-length mirror in my bedroom and decide I’m happy with what I see. Seconds later, Bert starts barking uproariously, and I realize my ride has arrived.
“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, then grab my clutch and head down the stairs.
The car that has pulled into my driveway is not a Chevy Tahoe. Instead, it’s a… Mercedes? White, a very recent model, and so clean you would think it was just driven off the showroom floor. The man who steps out of the car in a tailored suit resembles Tom Hardy on his way to the Oscars — so much so that I literally do a double-take before I realize it really is Striker.
The second he sees me on the front step, he stops in his tracks. For a long second Striker stares at me, not moving. His eyes slide over my dress, slowly and languidly. It’s a repeat of his reaction to my suit from the other day, except this time he’s more controlled. More deliberate.
“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” Striker asks.
I meet his gaze uncertainly. But his eyes are twinkling, so I let myself relax a little.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
“You should. You look hot as sin.”
“You look pretty sinful yourself,” I admit. “Nice suit. Nice car, too.”
He opens the passenger door for me. “Only the best for the woman who’s sure to be the best-looking one there,” he says as I slide in.
I don’t know how to react to his compliment. Actually, I don’t know how to react to anything about how Striker is acting right now. After what happened the last time I saw him, I was expecting… I don’t know. Distance? Polite professionalism? So instead I say nothing, and just make sure my skirt is all the way inside so he can shut my door. As he walks around the front to his side, I notice how crisp and polished he is, how well he fills the suit out.
And how hard it is not to stare at his narrow hips and bulging biceps.
“My God,” I whisper. “How is he even more handsome like this?”
Striker climbs into the driver’s side and starts the car. “So. Where is this fancy-ass shindig, anyway?”
“Tanner Springs Country Club,” I say, sarcasm seeping into my words.
Beside me, Striker snickers. “That good, huh?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” I snark.
“Okay. So, it’s not gonna be the best party I’ve ever been to.” He backs the car into the street. “Tell me what thing is for.”
“It’s a charity dinner and silent auction for children’s cancer research,” I explain. “At least, that’s what it’s about on the surface. The real point of it is an opportunity for rich people to get dressed up and show each other how rich they are.”
“That sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Striker deadpans. “And you’re going why?”
I huff out a breath. “The person at the head of the charity is my ex-husband’s former boss’s wife. The four of us used to socialize together when Mark was employed by him. I’m not really friends with any of that crowd anymore, but word of mouth is important in a small town like this, so I don’t want to make enemies of them, either.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s a small price to pay to go to this thing once a year, to keep up superficial appearances.”
“There gonna be any decent food at this thing?”
“I hope so,” I quip. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
We arrive at the club. Striker drives up to the front entrance and tosses the key to the valet like he was born into money.
“You nervous?” he asks, turning to me. Striker remembers this is the first time these people will see that Mark and I are no longer together.
“A little,” I admit.
“Think of it like pulling off a Band-aid,” he suggests. “People might talk a little bit at first, but by the end of the night, they’re gonna have moved on to something else.”
I don’t tell him it’s Mark’s reaction I’m most nervous about. I know he won’t be happy I’ve decided to go public about our separation. He never would have agreed to it if I had suggested it.
Oh, well. Maybe the prospect of the $100,000 land purchase I’m helping him with will make him less angry with me.
Striker gives me his arm. I take it, and we stroll in through the open double doors together.
“We need to show a ticket for this or something?” he asks.
“If you’re dressed like this, they assume you belong here. But we do have tickets.” I pat my bag. “I’ve paid for them through my expense account, since this definitely counts as business. Or at least, the absence of pleasure,” I joke.
The din of well-heeled people laughing ostentatiously at one another’s jokes greets us as we stride toward the large President’s Ballroom, where the gala is taking place. My stomach flutters a little bit, but I’m actually calmer than I would otherwise be because Striker is here with me. A caterer comes by, carrying a tray of champagne. I reach out and take a glass.
“You?” I ask Striker.
“I’m gonna grab a whiskey.”
I take a sip. “I’ll come with you.”
As we make our way over to the bar, familiar faces smile at me in greeting. I notice many of them casting surreptitious glances at Striker. A few of the women turn toward one another to whisper. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what sorts of things they’re saying. I answer them in my mind.
Yes, he’s smoking hot. Yes, he’s my date.
Striker gets his drink, and we move into the crowd. If he’s hating this so far, his expression doesn’t show it. I make a mental note to congratulate him on his poker face later.
I’m just taking my second sip of champagne when I notice Miranda Fortier making her way through the crowd.
“Heads up,” I
say to Striker. “Here comes the gala organizer.”
“December!” Miranda coos as she approaches. “How good to see you!”
“And you,” I return, leaning in for an air kiss. “The event is a triumph, as usual.”
“We’ve sold nearly twice as many tickets this year as we did last,” she simpers, looking pleased. “I do believe we’re on target to set a record.”
“How wonderful.”
But Miranda’s icy blue eyes have left mine, and she’s now staring at Striker with naked interest. “And who is this, December? I don’t believe I’ve seen him around town before.”
“Striker Rossi,” Striker rumbles. I suppress a giggle, because I’m almost certain she has seen him around Tanner Springs. She just doesn’t recognize him.
“Goodness. Aren’t you lovely,” she purrs, gazing at him through her lashes.
“I’m afraid I’m new to your gala this year,” Striker says, sounding like he does this every day. “Tell me more about the charity you’re supporting.”
“We’re raising money to fight children’s cancer.” Miranda flashes him a dazzling smile that probably cost more than my annual salary. “I hope you can contribute to the cause.”
“Count on it.”
“I believe you’re seated at table fourteen, December,” Miranda continues, not taking her eyes off Striker. “Please do let’s reconnect after dinner. I’m afraid I need to continue greeting people.”
I let out a deep sigh of relief as she whirls away. “Damn, you’re good at this,” I remark to Striker.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” His mouth curves upward.
“So, anyway, that’s Miranda. You made such a good impression that she didn’t even ask me about Mark.”
Striker cocks a brow at me. “You think she’ll wanna strike up a convo next time I see her downtown?”
I burst out laughing so loudly that a few people turn to see what the commotion is about.
STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 15