Strike (The Beat and The Pulse #10)

by Amity Cross

  It was going to be a long day.

  6

  Storm

  My fight at The Underground tonight hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

  The plan was to win, but instead, I’d had my ass handed to me by Blade. It was like another dose of karma was thumping me in the face, and this time, it was retribution for being a knob to Faye last night. I experienced a lot of karma these days.

  Making my way through the crowd, I rubbed my side. That kick had to have busted a rib. Maybe I should get it checked out.

  “The shop burned to the ground,” a woman was saying. “And some guy just leapt into the flames and saved her.”

  “Her cakes are amazing,” another woman added. “Did you see this one? It’s shaped like a fairy garden with little toadstools and grass and everything. It’s chocolate inside.”

  “It’s a shame about her shop.”

  “Yeah, I hope she finds the guy.”

  “To think he just left without leaving his name like that. It would drive me mad.”

  I froze, my heart leaping. They were talking about the ashen-haired woman. They had to be. How many other stupid fuckers leapt into burning buildings in this city?

  I should’ve kept walking, but I turned to the group of women, temptation flowing through my veins thick and fast. She was looking for me. Green eyes was looking for me.

  I had a chance to know her if I wanted. I’d walked away because I knew it was the right thing to do, but selfishly, I found myself wanting to run after her. Maybe she would be different. Maybe she would see the real me, not the lies.

  Elbowing my way forward, I approached the women.

  “Hey,” I said, ignoring their startled glances when I pushed my way into their group. “Who’s that you’re talking about? That fire on Brunswick Street the other night?”

  The woman next to me eyed me curiously. “Yeah. Did you see it?”

  “I live near there,” I replied. “I saw the trucks.”

  “Some woman was trapped in there,” the girl across from me said. “Some mystery guy saved her.”

  “Now she’s looking for him,” the girl to my right said. “He never left a name and disappeared right after.”

  “It isn’t you, is it Storm?” the girl opposite asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “C’mon girls,” I drawled. “You know me. I’m a complete fuckhead. Of course, it isn’t. Can I see that?” I nodded at the cocky girl’s phone.

  “You’re right. You are a fuckhead. You jumped out of my friend Rhiannon’s car at the Alexandria Parade traffic lights the other night rather than let her suck your cock.” Rolling her eyes, she handed me her phone so I could see the post.

  I shrugged and took the phone. “It happens.”

  “It was a total dick move,” the girl to my right said.

  “Girls like your friend Rhiannon always think they’re the exception to the rule,” I said, glancing at the screen. Callie Winslow. Her name was Callie Winslow. “They always think they can turn the asshole good, and all it takes to mend a broken past is a few decent orgasms. Ain’t going to happen.” I handed the scowling girl back her phone. “Nice doing business with you.”

  Retreating, I left the women to their death stares and swung by the bar. I’d need a beer for this.

  “Quite the beating you took tonight,” Faye said, handing me a Corona. “You on your period or something?”

  Narrowing my eyes, I saw she was still pissed I’d turned her down. She would just have to deal. Besides, there were plenty of other cocks lining up for her to ride, and she didn’t even have to buy a ticket.

  “Nice to see you too, Faye.” I snatched the beer and flung a ten-dollar note at her. “Keep the change.”

  “You know, there’s a reason why everyone hates your guts, Storm,” she called out after me. “You’re not helping yourself!”

  Ignoring her, I weaved through the throng of people and found a quiet corner. Sitting on a couch in a darkened alcove—a couch that had probably seen its fair share of disinfectant—I sipped at my beer and contemplated looking up the beautiful Callie Winslow and seeing what she had to say about me. Her story seemed to have gone viral if those bitches were talking about it, so it was a good thing she didn’t know my true identity. If she did, it would be another kind of headline.

  Taking out my phone, I nursed my beer between my knees and downloaded the Facebook app. I couldn’t believe I was doing this shit. Ever since my stupid ass was smeared all over the news and the Internet, I’d steered clear. I’d deleted every profile I’d had online and had never dared go back. People could be vicious as fuck when they weren’t held accountable.

  I had to create a profile to continue, so I made one and set my name as Storm R, leaving the picture and other details blank.

  Tapping the search bar, I typed in her name. Callie Winslow.

  I knew I was tempting fate and fueling a strange attraction I didn’t know anything about, but I did it anyway. She was going to be disappointed, and I was still going to be a miserable bastard.

  The results loaded up, and there she was. Pale blonde hair, green eyes, and a smile to kill for. Tapping on the photo, it enlarged, and I salivated…and it had nothing to do with the giant wedding cake behind her.

  She had curves but was still delicate, and she had a happy almost carefree way about her. I could see the pride in her eyes and the uninhibited joy her chosen profession had afforded her. She looked like an angel. A completely fuckable angel.

  Exiting out of the photo, I read the post that had caused such a ruckus, and my hands started to shake. They actually fucking shook. Pussy.

  She was a baker. A pastry chef. Was that what they called it? It was her shop that burned down, the dream she’d worked all her life to achieve, and now it was a pile of ash. The Fitzroy Cake Company. She’d almost gone down with it until I’d shown up.

  You saved my life…and haunted me instead. Please. Who are you?

  Turning over my phone, I grabbed my beer and downed a mouthful. Casting my gaze out over The Underground, I didn’t know what to think. About any of it.

  I could still smell the stench of smoke lodged in my sinuses, and the feel of her in my arms was as vivid as the kick on the ribs I’d copped in the cage the hour before. She’d only spoken about a dozen words to me, but I remembered every single one.

  Picking up my phone, I opened her profile and began scrolling, and a more complete picture of Callie Winslow began to take shape. There were a lot of photos of her cakes and pastries and a lot of selfies, but there was no guy. Was she alone?

  You haunted me instead…

  My finger hovered over the message icon. She would be disappointed when she found out the truth about me. She would believe the lie—that I was a perpetrator of domestic violence—and she wouldn’t feel the same way about that night. She would look at me like everyone else did. Those pretty green eyes would be filled with hate.

  If there was one thing I was good at, it was giving women closure. First, the con artist ring girl, then Lori, and now Callie. She could say what she needed to say, and then move on with her life.

  So I opened a message, typed in some words, and pressed send.

  * * *

  Storm R: I hear you’re looking for me.

  * * *

  Like she was already there waiting for me to message her, three little bouncing dots appeared at the bottom of the screen, signaling she was typing a reply.

  * * *

  Callie: What color was I painting the storeroom?

  Storm R: What?

  Callie: I’ve had a lot of morons trying to dupe me. So… What color was the paint?

  Storm R: Light blue. The can had tipped over, and it was all over the floor.

  * * *

  There was a long pause, and I began to doubt my memory, but finally, the three dots appeared again.

  * * *

  Callie: Is it really you?

  Storm R: Yeah.

  Callie: Really?

  St
orm R: Last time I looked. I don’t leap into raging infernos for just anyone.

  Callie: Is that actually your name?

  Storm R: Yes and no.

  Storm R: Are you okay?

  Callie: I’m fine. I bumped my head and inhaled a lot of smoke, but I’m okay now.

  Storm R: Good. I’m glad.

  Callie: It was an accident. The fire. The police said it was faulty wiring.

  Storm R: The police?

  Callie: My insurance company says I should sue my landlord.

  Storm R: You should. It sounds like it was their fault.

  Callie: Thank you. For saving me.

  Callie: It was the ultimate, you know? Risking yourself for a stranger.

  * * *

  Glancing up at The Underground, I frowned. I’d wanted a scrap of kindness, and now that Callie was throwing me a bone, it made me feel uncomfortable. Like I didn’t deserve it. I’d saved her life, but I was still in the black where karma was concerned. When would I stop feeling like a total asshole?

  * * *

  Callie: Can I see you in person? Please?

  * * *

  I hesitated. No. It was completely out of the question. She couldn’t know me. Then why the fuck did you message her?

  * * *

  Callie: I know you’re still there. Please meet me.

  Callie: Please.

  Callie: I can’t explain it. I feel connected to you somehow. Maybe it was just the fire and the way we met, but I have to know…

  Storm R: Know what?

  Callie: If it’s real.

  * * *

  My fingers tightened around my phone. Maybe this was my chance at real. Maybe Callie could help me redeem myself. Maybe she was the one who would finally be able to see the real me.

  Fuck, I was desperate for someone to be glad to see me. Someone who wouldn’t scowl and change direction when they saw me coming. I didn’t want someone to try to fix me. I wanted someone to listen. I could do with a little kindness. A drop. I would take any little scrap.

  * * *

  Storm R: Okay. Let’s meet.

  7

  Callie

  I sat in a bar on Brunswick Street, my second gin and tonic on the table before me.

  Two blocks away was the boarded-up remains of The Fitzroy Cake Company. Luckily, I didn’t have to pass it on my way here. Otherwise, I would be an even bigger ball of nerves.

  When my handsome stranger had sent me a message, I’d almost dropped dead on the spot. And that was saying something considering it had almost happened to me for real. After a slew of trolls and random dudes sending me photos of their limp dicks, Storm R had answered the question correctly. What color was I painting the storeroom?

  It was a simple question, and anyone could’ve guessed it, but when he’d mentioned how the can had tipped over, I knew it was him. I knew it. Anyway, he was due to meet me tonight, and when I laid eyes on him, there would be no denying it.

  A blast of cool air tickled my cheeks as the door opened. My heart twisted in anticipation, but the man who walked in was blond and was leaning down to kiss a woman who was far more glamorous than I was. Resisting the urge to curl my lip at them, I sipped my gin and tonic.

  Was the fire only four nights ago? It felt like an eternity had passed waiting to meet the man who had saved my life.

  Checking the time on my phone, I saw he was fifteen minutes late, and I shook off the feeling of foreboding that was growing in the pit of my stomach.

  The door opened again, and I glanced up, my heart deflating when I saw it was only a woman. She crossed the bar and greeted her friends, smiling all the way. I watched her with a pang of jealousy as she sat down and immediately launched into conversation. Life was so easy for some people. Confidence was never my strong suit, which was why I liked sharing my cakes on the Internet. Even with its trolls and perverts, I didn’t have to put on a pretense twenty-four seven. I could totally hit the delete button.

  Nursing my gin and tonic, I took a sip to pretend I was doing something other than waiting for a guy who had obviously stood me up. No one came to a bar alone unless they were a raging alcoholic, right?

  I glanced at my phone for what felt like the millionth time, but there were no messages from the mysterious Storm R. What if he was just another crackpot and this was an elaborate scheme to humiliate me. The world was fucked up like that, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Shaming was a lot of people’s first port of call when they found something to be outraged or jealous over. Modern living at its finest.

  Listening to the bustle around me—music and happy conversation—I sank deeper and deeper into depression. He’d probably stood outside, saw me through the window, decided I wasn’t pretty or thin enough, and legged it. Either that or Macy was right. He wanted to remain anonymous and had second thoughts about meeting me.

  Checking the time, I sighed. Now he was half an hour late. Safe to say he wasn’t coming. Great, just fucking great.

  Draining the last of my gin and tonic, I picked up my handbag and rose to my feet.

  “Callie?”

  Glancing up at the sound of a male voice, I froze when my gaze connected with a pair of familiar chestnut-colored eyes. My fingers went limp, and the handle of my bag slipped from my grasp. It landed by my feet, but I didn’t bend to retrieve it. I was trapped in the vortex that was my mystery savior.

  It was him. There was no doubt about it.

  His eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” I said.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he replied, his voice washing over me the same way it had the night of the fire. He glanced at the empty glass on the table. “Can I get you another?”

  “Uh…” I shrugged. “Gin and tonic.”

  He nodded and stepped over to the bar. Sinking back down onto my chair, I kicked my handbag between my feet and sucked in a sharp breath. Holy smokes.

  Staring at him as he gave his order to the bartender, I gave him the once-over. I hadn’t had a chance the other night since I was suffocating and everything, but now I was free to study every little detail while his back was turned. And what a back it was.

  His haircut was rough like he’d kept it shaved and it had grown out a little too long. He’d dressed nicely, a gray shirt and dark-colored jeans, and those same boots were on his feet. The ones with the scuffed toes and loose laces. His arms were well defined, and his shoulders were broad. His ass was perfection. Complete perfection.

  The bartender placed a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Storm, and he handed the guy some money, then returned to the table.

  He set the glass in front of me, and I took it, desperate to ply myself with a little liquid courage. Our fingers grazed, and at his touch, I almost dropped the lot into my lap.

  He sat opposite and rested his elbows on the tabletop.

  “Callie,” he said, trying to start some kind of conversation. “Is that short for something?”

  “No,” I replied. “It’s just Callie.”

  We fell into an uneasy silence. I’d stewed over what I would say to him all day. I’d even taken notes to try to clear my mind, but now he was actually here in front of me, the easy conversation I’d dreamed of was non-existent. He didn’t seem to want to talk at all, or he was waiting for me to say the words I’d been so desperate to tell him. Thank you.

  It was easy. Two little words. Just say it, Callie. I was crashing and burning, and where I should’ve been relaying gratitude, I was allowing my nervous energy to swallow me whole.

  It was just…he was so handsome and brooding, and I was little Callie with her little smoldering mess of a cake shop. He was ripped—I could see the biceps on the guy, which meant the likelihood of a six-pack was rather high—so anything more than a ‘thanks for saving my life’ conversation was a long shot to hell.

  I was soft around the edges. Guys like him didn’t go for squishy girls like me.

  “Listen, I um… I thought about all these things I wanted to say
, but now you’re here, I don’t have a clue,” I said, arming myself with the truth. “My post must’ve… Well, it must’ve been a whole bag of crazy. I’m surprised you wanted to meet me.”

  “I almost didn’t come.”

  My gaze met his. I knew it.

  “Then why did you?” I asked, my fingers wiping at the condensation on the outside of my glass. “You almost got away with it.”

  He didn’t reply. He just frowned broodingly.

  “What’s your name? It’s not really Storm, right?”

  He started picking at the label on his beer.

  I wasn’t quite sure what I’d been expecting from tonight, but it wasn’t this. Evasive had nothing on his behavior right now. I felt like I was interrogating the guy. He’d said it himself. He almost didn’t come. Maybe he hadn’t had a clear view of my ass through the window, and that was why he stepped through the door.

  Picking up my bag, I shoved down the disappointment that was beginning to overtake my tear ducts.

  “You’re right,” I said. “This wasn’t a good idea.” He perked up, his eyes following my every move. “Thank you, Mr…”—I waved my hand at him with a scowl—“Storm, for saving my life. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” I rose to my feet.

  “Mark,” he said. I froze, and he stared up at me, the sadness I’d seen in his gaze the night of the fire coming back to the surface. “My name is Mark.”

  I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there and waited. Did he want me to stay? Was he actually going to talk? Did he want to know me? I wanted him to. I wanted things to flow both ways. The handsome stranger who saved my life. Mark.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  Returning my ass to the chair, I set my bag down for the third time that night.