STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 13

  “Shit. That don’t sound good. Is Cady upset?”

  Tank’s jaw ticks. “No. She fuckin’ laughed, actually. Thinks it’s just bluster and wounded pride. She said, ‘What does he have to gain by coming after me? I’m walking away from everything and leaving it to them.’ I ain’t so sure, though. From what she’s told me about this asshole, he’s a vindictive motherfucker. I still got eyes on the whole family over in North Carolina, though, so if they make a move, I’ll know.”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. “Unless they hire out muscle to do it for them.”

  Tank nods. “That’s the question. I told Cady she had to agree to having protection, given what her ex and stepdad said. She admitted it was a good idea, so at least I don’t have to hide that I’m having her guarded anymore. Gunner’s with her now.”

  “I’ll let Jude know about it. Make sure he’s aware the family might get a wild hair and come down here. We’ll keep an extra close eye on Ember until we see how things play out.”

  A week ago, I would’ve been pissed that this meant I had to keep guarding Ember. I’d be frustrated and irritated at being asked to do a job that amounts to just sitting on my ass, protecting some tight-ass lawyer chick from a boogeyman that probably doesn’t have the balls to show his face here.

  But as it stands right now, my reaction is the exact opposite. I’m relieved Tank wants me to keep watching Ember. Whether or not Cady’s ex is a credible threat, I’ll feel better if her protection is something I’m in charge of.

  It’s a messed-up situation. I haven’t fucked her, though Christ knows I wanted to last night. But somehow, Ember’s different. I mean, yeah, I wanna hit that. But I like her, too. Genuinely. I care about the shit she has to say. She’s not the rich bitch I thought she was. Hell, turns out she’s not even rich. She’s tough, though. Smart and determined. And a hell of a lot more down to earth than I thought she’d be. Shit, if I’m honest with myself, I’m not looking forward to what it’ll be like when all this is over and I don’t have an excuse to hang out with her anymore.

  “Hey, also…” Tank rumbles, cutting into my thoughts. “Ember got Wren’s birth certificate from the county. I ain’t on it.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ember told me.”

  “She did, eh?” Tank shoots me a sharp glance.

  “I was there when she picked up the mail.”

  “Huh.” Tank waits a beat. “Yeah, of course you were. So… I guess the next step is to take a paternity test.”

  “That should do it, right?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t wanna take it, Strike,” Tank confesses.

  “What?” I ask, cocking my head at him. “Why the fuck not?”

  “What if Wren ain’t mine?” Tank blurts out. “I mean, yeah, I know Jess and I were fuckin’ plenty around the time she got pregnant, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t with other guys. Hell, who knows how many men she was with back then? I sure as hell didn’t care to know.”

  Tank’s not wrong. Hell, I fucked Jess more than a few times myself. She wasn’t exactly a patch whore, but she sure wouldn’t waste any time sidling up to one of the other Lords if Tank pushed her away.

  “Yeah… but that don’t make any sense,” I reason. “Why would she dump Wren off on you, if she wasn’t pretty sure the kid was yours?”

  He doesn’t reply at first. When he does, his voice is raw.

  “Demon told me on the phone that day that Jess said I’d be easy to lure into their trap,” he says. “She told him it’d be easy to get me to do what they wanted if I was doin’ it to protect my little girl.”

  “That wasn’t true, though,” I point out. “You didn’t sell the club out. You never would have.”

  “But they thought I would.” He stares at me. “Strike, what if they only picked me because I seemed like the easiest mark?”

  Fuck. Tank’s head is really screwed up over this. I never heard him talk like this before.

  “Start the engine,” I tell him. He climbs into the Tahoe and turn the key, and I check the oil pressure. When he climbs back out, I straighten and look him in the eye.

  “You just gotta take this one step at a time, brother.” I slam the hood down on the car, wipe my hands on my jeans. “Get the test. Don’t worry about shit that hasn’t happened. One day at a time, and all that zen shit.”

  “Who are you, the goddamn Buddha?” he shoots back, then exhales. “Hell, you’re probably right.”

  “I mean, shit,” I continue. “Maybe by the time the results come back, Ember and Tweak will have tracked down Jess, and the test won’t even matter anymore.”

  For some reason, I don’t tell him I’m planning to go hunting for Jess with Ember. Not sure why.

  His jaw tightens. “Maybe. That’s probably my best bet, if we can find her sorry ass. I gotta believe she’ll be fine signing her rights over to the kid, seein’ as how she doesn’t give a shit about Wren anyway.”

  “Because of her, our club was almost destroyed. In exchange for letting her live? I think she’d better be fine with signing custody of Wren over to you.”

  Tank’s fists clench tight. “I fuckin’ hope so, brother. I fuckin’ hope so.”

  The rest of the day is spent doing errands and other bullshit. I even clean up my place some, which is a bigger job than it should be because I generally don’t give a shit about that. Before I know it, it’s about time for me to go relieve Jude and take my shift watching Ember. We’re supposed to go drive out to the address we have for Jess’s parents after Ember gets off work.

  I grab a quick shower before I leave, and put on some clean clothes. Hell, I even shave, and push away the thought that it feels like I’m getting ready for a date. I get to Ember’s office just before five. Jude is hanging around just off one end of the parking lot, out of sight to anyone but me. I lift my chin at him. He gives me a one-finger wave and hops on his bike. I send Ember a text that I’m here, and watch him pull away. A minute later, Ember exits the building.

  And ho. Ly. Shit.

  She looks fuckin’ stunning.

  Ms. December Wells, Esquire, family law attorney, has always dressed in a manner I think of as “Conceal Carry Sexy.” Her suits are quality-made and conservatively tailored, just well enough that you know she has a good body, without actually letting you see much of anything.

  Ember Wells, the chick I’ve come to know from guarding her these past days, is natural-sexy. Effortless and girl-next-door. Mary Ann in Gilligan’s Island.

  But the woman who steps out the front door just now? This is a chick I’ve never met before. This chick just stepped off the cover of fuckin’ Maxim magazine. She looks like the movie star version of a hot lawyer chick. She’s got on this tight, plum-colored skirt and matching blazer that fits her like it was painted on. Her hair is down, flowing long and wavy around her shoulders. High, nude heels elongate her legs and lift her ass, and fuck me if I’m not rock goddamn hard in the span of an instant.

  Ember scans the small parking lot. When her eyes fall on me, she gives me a little finger wave.

  And then, damned if she doesn’t give those hips a little shimmy as she makes her way to her car.

  Fuck me, I think, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m literally drooling.

  I know I promised Tank that Ember is off-limits. But I think I might be a goner.

  20

  Ember

  Monday morning at the office, Margot tells me Benji wouldn’t stop talking about Striker after we left their house yesterday.

  “Especially once he found out your friend rides a motorcycle,” Margot says, putting a sarcastic twist on the word. “Benji now wants to know how much motorcycles cost, and how old you have to be to ride one. He also wanted to know whether he could ask Santa for one for Christmas. So yeah, thanks for that.”

  “He’ll forget about it, eventually,” I assure her. “In a week or two, some new video game will come out and he’ll start clamoring for that instead.”

  “I don’t k
now about that. He was also asking me whether tattoos hurt.”

  “Whoops.”

  “Yeah. I think I might have a budding delinquent on my hands, thanks to you,” she sighs.

  A flash of irritation shoots through me. Striker’s not a delinquent. I mean okay, yeah, technically he has probably done some less than legal things in his life. But he told me his club is going legit now. Just because he rides a motorcycle and has tattoos…

  “Hey, what’s with that outfit, anyway?” Margot asks, interrupting my inner monologue. She eyes me up and down. “You have a hot lunch date or something?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, blushing.

  She crosses her arms. “You know exactly what I mean. I’ve only ever seen you wear that suit when you’re trying to win a case against a perv. And you don’t even have court today. So what’s the deal?”

  Sheepishly, I look down at my attire — a belted plum-colored blazer and pencil skirt cut just above the knee. The blazer shows off my waist, and yes, it does accentuate my figure more than my normal work attire. The last time I wore it was when I was representing a client whose soon-to-be-ex-husband was a cheating scumbag with a roving eye. The female judge saw him leering openly at me, and… well, let’s just say, I don’t know for sure that it had anything to do with our winning a hefty settlement, but I don’t think it hurt, either.

  “There’s nothing on your schedule for lunch, though,” Margot continues, still guessing. “You have a date later, don’t you? An after-work drink.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “C’mon, Em. Who is he and where are you meeting him? Is he picking you up here?” Margot glances out the front window to the parking lot. “Hey,” she frowns, “I thought you said your car was in the shop. Wasn’t that why the biker guy drove you over to our place yesterday?”

  Oh, shit.

  “Wait!” Margot’s eyes widen into an incredulous stare. “Wait just a gosh-darned second. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s the biker!”

  “No!” Oh, God. “I just… uh…”

  “Who is it, then?” Margot demands, eyes locked on my face.

  “I mean, it’s not a date!” I fumble. “I don’t have a date! Striker’s not… it’s not like that!”

  “Oh my God!” Margot erupts. “How could I not see it? First, he drives you to my house yesterday. Then today, you show up for work all tarted up like a porn-star version of a lawyer…”

  “Okay, that is offensive,” I protest.

  “Whatever.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “You need to come clean, Ember Wells. What is going on with this Striker guy? And don’t tell me nothing, because we both know that isn’t true.” She plants her fists on her hips. “Spill. Now.”

  Frantically, my brain casts about for something I can say. You’d think as a lawyer, I’d have a better poker face. But it’s no use. I have to tell her the truth. At least, enough of it to put her off the scent.

  “Ugh, you know what? Fine.” I exhale. “Striker is my bodyguard.”

  “Your… what?” Margot gawks at me, flabbergasted.

  I wave a hand. “It’s just a precaution. It’s silly, really.”

  “Ember,” Margot gasps, a hand covering her mouth. “Is Mark… has he been threatening you?”

  “What? No! Why would you think that?”

  “It’s just that…” Margot swallows. “I mean, it’s nothing. But you’re sure, though? If it’s not him, who is it? Why on earth do you need a bodyguard?”

  “I don’t,” I assure her. “Honestly. Like I said, it’s a precaution. You remember Tank Barrigan and Cady Abernathy? Well, Tank just wanted to make sure I was safe when we sent the divorce paperwork to Cady’s husband. It’s only for a little while. In fact, I’d guess that within a week, Tank will decide everything is fine and tell Striker he can stand down, or whatever they call it.”

  “I can’t believe you agreed to that.” Her face is pale. “Are you sure there’s no danger?”

  “I didn’t agree to it, at first,” I admit. “And no, I don’t know for sure, but even Cady thinks he’s overreacting. I didn’t want to abandon Tank and Cady as clients, and it makes Tank feel better, so…” I shrug. “Like I said, it’s only for a little bit. And it hasn’t been as bad as all that.”

  Margot looks reassured. “I bet it hasn’t,” she cracks.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, reddening.

  “I saw the way Striker was looking at you yesterday. He kept stealing glances at your ass when you turned around. Have you two…?”

  “No!” I insist, even as my face starts to burn.

  “Are you sure?” she snickers. “Do you want to?”

  “Okay, you know what?” I roll my eyes. “I am not talking about this with my husband’s cousin. I’m going into my office now. And this conversation topic is over.”

  “You want tooooo!” she sings after me as I retreat into my office sanctum, closing the door behind me.

  Late that afternoon, after Margot has left for the day to go pick up Benji, I get a text from Striker that he’s outside the office. Our loose plan is to drive over to the last address Tweak gave me for Jess’s parents, and just go from there.

  I text Striker that I’ll be right out, and close down what I’m working on. On the way out, I stop at the bathroom to check my hair and my face. As I apply fresh lipstick, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are bright, hopeful, eager. Too eager. I try a casual smile, but it comes out like a Chandler Bing grimace.

  Ugh. Okay, so Margot was right. I do want to sleep with Striker. So what? I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s insanely attractive. And after the kiss we shared last night — a kiss that would almost certainly have turned into something more if Jude hadn’t shown up — I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it.

  Pretty much non-stop.

  If it happened again — if he kissed me again, and next time, nothing happened to stop it — what would I do? Would I be crazy to act on it?

  “I’m not going to act on it,” I try saying to my reflection.

  I get the feeling my reflection doesn’t buy it for a second.

  When I get outside, Striker is waiting for me, leaning against his motorcycle. I can’t help but think of the first time I saw him, also in this parking lot. How has it only been a week since then?

  Striker’s eyes widen when he sees me. They slowly slide from my face, raking down my body.

  “Holy shit,” he breathes.

  “What?” I ask. A little thrill of excitement chases up my spine to hear the same raw hunger in him I recognize from last night.

  Striker shakes his head, then clears his throat and stands. “Let’s just say you’re not gonna be able to get on a motorcycle dressed like that,” he remarks thickly. “Far be it for me to tell you to change out of that get-up, but I thought we could take the bike out to Jess’s parents’ place. You want to go back to your house and change?”

  I consider the idea. The idea of being on the back of his bike, slid up next to the warmth of his body, starts a thrum vibrating between my legs. But as much as I want to do that, I’m enough of a lawyer to realize I need to be focused when we arrive at our destination. I definitely won’t be if I’m thinking naughty thoughts about Striker. Or worse, if I’m so terrified by being on a motorcycle for the first time that I’m trying not to scream the whole way there.

  Plus — and it’s embarrassing to admit it to myself — I like the idea of Striker seeing me in this suit for a little longer. It makes me feel sexy and powerful to know I’m having this effect on him. Like for once, I’m the one who has the upper hand.

  “Let’s take my car,” I suggest. “It’ll be easier to take my briefcase that way. Plus, it might make us look more approachable if we show up in a modest vehicle. I’ll take a rain check on the motorcycle ride.”

  “Suit yourself. But if we’re taking your car, I’m driving.”

  “Um, what?” I do a double-take. “No you’re not. It’s my car.”


  “Doesn’t matter.” He holds out his hand. “Keys.”

  “Absolutely not!” Crossing my arms in front of me, I stand my ground. “This caveman stuff is old and tired, Striker. You know damn well I’m not about to put up with it from you.”

  “Ain’t nothing to do with that,” he persists. Any flash of desire in his eyes is gone now, replaced by impatience.

  “Oh?” I challenge him.” What does it have to do with? Are you going to tell me men are better drivers than women? Are you going to say you think you’re less safe with me behind the wheel, even though you have never once driven with me?”

  “For fuck’s sake,” he growls. “No, men aren’t better drivers than women. I’m sure you’re a fine driver. But I’m a better driver than you.”

  “Oh, my God, are you listening to yourself right now?” I yell. How has this conversation gone from light flirtation to me literally wanting to pull my hair out by its roots?

  “It’s the truth,” he says bluntly. “Unless you have experience in tactical driving. Do you?”

  “No, but--”

  “No but nothing,” he says, cutting me off. “I repeat, I’m a better driver than you And my job is to protect you. So…”

  I can’t win this argument with words, like I usually do in the courtroom. So, I do the only thing I can do: before Striker can react, I fling open the driver’s side door and jump in, clipping my seat belt on around me.

  “I’m driving,” I say when he opens his mouth to argue. “You can ride with me as a passenger, or you can follow behind me on your bike. Your choice.”

  Striker blinks down at me in disbelief. His dark eyes flash. I hold my breath, hoping he won’t just reach down and physically pry me out of the car.

  “Jesus Christ,” he sighs, rolling his eyes, and goes over to the passenger side.

  I do a tiny victory dance in my seat.

  21

  Ember