STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 16

  “Lord, I would actually pay to see that,” I tell him. Feeling strangely lighthearted, I toss back the rest of my champagne and grab another glass from a roving waiter.

  “You need to eat if you’re gonna keep downing that champagne,” Striker says, grabbing me a hors d’oeuvre from a passing caterer.

  “You need to quit bossing me around,” I retort as I let him pop it into my mouth. But he just chuckles.

  I should hate Striker’s protective, dominant streak way more than I do. Mark was a domineering asshole when we were married, and I always hated it. But the way Striker acts toward me feels different somehow.

  Of course it feels different. You have the hots for him. Get a grip on yourself.

  While my conscience is giving me a stern bitching-out, I don’t even notice Mark himself approaching, until he’s basically right in front of us. He’s dressed impeccably in the tuxedo that he owns, but that does nothing to distract from the fury on his face.

  “Ember,” he grits out.

  “Hello, Mark.”

  “You’re looking well. New dress, I see? And you’ve got your gardener with you.” His lip curls. How nice.”

  “Panty.” Striker greets my ex-husband with a deliberate smirk.

  “How long did it take for you to get the dirt cleaned out from under your fingernails… Striker, isn’t it?” Mark draws himself up to his full height, which is still a good two inches shorter than Striker. “You know, I did a little digging about you, Mr. Rossi. Ember, you can’t have known he’s part of that motorcycle gang, the Lords of Carnage.”

  “Club,” Striker corrects.

  “What?” Mark turns to Striker with an expression of open loathing.

  “It’s a motorcycle club, not a gang.” Striker’s tone is calm, almost pleasant. He’s absolutely unflappable. The contrast with Mark’s simmering anger is so ludicrous that I find any tension I was feeling actually ebbing away.

  “Jesus, December, I thought you had more sense than to do this,” Mark hisses, waving one hand in an arc to indicate the room. “This doesn’t only hurt me, it hurts you. Your reputation is fragile, and you are in the process of destroying it!”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I tell him with a calm I almost feel.

  Mark takes a deep breath, then turns to Striker, a tight rictus of a smile on his face. “You know, I remember hearing a joke about bikers. You’ll like this one: do you know the difference between a Hoover and a Harley?” Mark waits a beat. “The position of the dirtbag,” he finishes, then starts to chuckle.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that one,” Striker drawls. “Ya know, it’s a douchebag move to laugh at your own jokes.”

  I’m starting to wonder whether I should separate the two of them, when Denise Hadley comes sauntering up. First time I’ve ever been glad to see her, I think to myself snarkily. Accompanying Denise is her father, Fletcher Hadley.

  “Hello, all!” Denise says in her nasally voice as she loops her arm proprietorially through her father’s. “Ember! I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t sure you were coming, since Mark showed up alone, but…” she trails off, giving Striker a frank once-over.

  “Denise Hadley, Fletcher Hadley, this is Striker Rossi. Striker, Fletcher is Denise’s father. Striker, I’m sure I’ve told you about them.” I give him a look, which he immediately registers, and I know he remembers what I told him about Mark cheating on me with Denise during our marriage.

  “Good to meet you,” Striker grunts. He sticks out his hand for Fletcher to shake.

  “I don’t believe I know the name Rossi,” Fletcher muses. “Is your family from here?”

  Denise and Fletcher are both staring at Striker and me in curiosity and confusion, as of course they would. Mark’s reddening face tells me that he’s furious.

  And then, as if on cue, Striker does the unthinkable: he slides his arm around my waist.

  “Afraid not,” Striker replies to Fletcher. “My family ain’t the society type. I’m just here with my date.”

  He gazes down at me with a gaze of such pure, unadulterated adoration that for a moment I am quite literally speechless.

  “I’ve told Ember that I feel like the luckiest guy in the world to snap her up when I did,” Striker continues. “Since she and Mark are getting divorced, I figured I’d better get in there and shoot my shot before some other guy came along, you know? Ember’s one in a million, and any dude would have to be an idiot not to see that.”

  By now, Denise is openly gaping. Fletcher is a bit more diplomatic. Clearing his throat, he says, “Well, that certainly is true. Ember is both beautiful and intelligent.”

  Mark, on the other hand, looks like his head is about to explode off his neck.

  “Excuse me,” he says tightly, spinning on his heel and stalking away away.

  Half a second later, Denise makes a strangled sound in her throat. “I’m just going to go to the powder room,” she stammers, and follows after him.

  Striker squeezes my waist. I try not to giggle, half-mortified, half-gleeful.

  “If you two will excuse me for a second,” Striker continues, nodding at Mr. Hadley, “I’m gonna go grab myself another drink. Can I entrust my date with you for a moment, sir?”

  “Certainly, my boy,” Fletcher chortles. “She’s safe with me.”

  Striker gives me a wink and moves off to the bar.

  “Well, that was a little awkward for a moment, wasn’t it?” Fletcher says merrily. “I’m sorry to say I had no idea you and Mark had split.”

  “It’s fine, really.” I smile widely, the champagne finally starting to take effect. “Mark and I hadn’t been announcing our separation publicly, but we decided it was time.”

  “I must say, divorce is a nasty business. I hope there’s no tension between you,” Fletcher continues.

  “Not at all, I assure you,” I lie.

  “Well, good. I’d hate to think that my financial adviser was treating his spouse — or ex-spouse — poorly. Especially because he’s such a miracle worker. I’ve been bragging about how much money Mark is making me to everyone I know, referring clients to him left and right.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh, yes. It really is quite amazing — I don’t know how he does it.” Fletcher chuckles, then leans in, lowering his voice. “Confidentially, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to divorce someone who was making me this much money, no matter what the circumstances.”

  “I— I’m glad to hear that,” I stammer, trying to mask my confusion at his words. As far as I know, Mark has always been reasonably competent at his job — but if he’s doing so well right now, why would he have needed to borrow from our joint investments to pay of his great uncle’s property tax bill? Surely his clients’ successes should be translating into big payoffs for him, too, shouldn’t they? It doesn’t make sense.

  I’m spared having to continue the conversation, though, as Striker comes up to rejoin us seconds later, a refreshed drink in hand. Mr. Hadley chats with us a bit more, then moves off as Miranda Fortier steps up onto the stage, welcomes us all to the gala, and tells us that we have half an hour to peruse the silent auction before dinner is served.

  24

  Striker

  We stick around at the gala for as long as we can stand it.

  We wander around the silent auction, and Ember bids on a few things, including spa package and a gift basket of candles and shit. Just for laughs, we bid on one of the grand prizes: a fancy vacation package for two to some fancy resort in the Turks and Caicos, which I think are some islands in the Caribbean or something. We eat a shitty dinner, at a table filled with stiffs. I even take her out on the dance floor for a couple dances afterwards, just to see the steam coming out of Panty’s ears.

  The whole time, it’s pretty fucking obvious that all eyes are on us — or at least all the eyes of the people who knew Ember and Panty as a couple. Curious glances and outright stares start to accumulate. Ember handles it like a champ, but as the evening wears
on, I can see a line of tension forming in her forehead. Eventually, she leans over to me and tells me in a whisper that she wants to make a break for it.

  “Don’t you wanna stick around and find out whether you won any of your bids?” I ask.

  She huffs out a laugh. “I doubt it. The people who are here make a big show out of their generosity. Miranda reads out the winners’ names at the end of the evening. I guarantee you, there are lots of guests who would pay quadruple what I bid to be publicly acknowledged like that.”

  “Damn,” I deadpan. “I was really counting on that Turks and Caicos trip.”

  As I guide her out of the ballroom, hand pressed against the small of her back, I catch Panty staring daggers at us from over behind a pillar, where he’s talking to a bunch of silver-haired geezers. I shift my body between him and Ember so she doesn’t see him. I get the Mercedes back from the valet, and settle Ember in the passenger seat. My pack of smokes is still sitting on the dash where I left them, and I grab it.

  “You mind?” I ask her, holding it up.

  “Actually, could I bum one?” she asks.

  “Really?” I raise a brow at her. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t. I used to.” She makes a face. “Mark made me quit. He said it was trashy. Unbecoming of a woman in my position.”

  “What position is that?” I pull two out of the pack, light them both, hand one to her.

  “Wife of an ‘important person’.” She puts the words in air quotes.

  “Not an important person in your own right?” I scowl. “Shit, you’re a lawyer. That seems plenty damn impressive to me.”

  “Nope. A lawyer is a great catch as a girlfriend. But as a wife, less so. I was supposed to quit working once I got pregnant,” she tells me. “Except I never got pregnant.”

  “Sounds like Panty spent a fuck of a lot of time deciding what you were supposed to do.”

  She takes a long drag on the cigarette. “Lord, that tastes good. Too good. Promise me that after tonight, you won’t give me another one, even if I beg.”

  The words just slip out: “Hearing you beg, I wouldn’t promise anything, sweetheart.”

  In the silence that follows, I hear the soft hitch of her breath.

  Yeah, that probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say.

  I put the car in gear, pull away from the curb. We both pretend the last ten seconds never happened.

  “Striker,” Ember murmurs after a moment. “Would you mind taking me for a drink somewhere, instead of going straight home?”

  “You’re not tired?”

  “I guess I’m a little wound up,” she admits. “I just don’t feel like going home yet, I guess.”

  “Sure.” As long as she’s in that sexy as fuck dress, Ember can ask me pretty much anything she wants and I won’t say no. “Where to?”

  She gives me a quirk of her lips. “I have just the place.”

  “This ain’t exactly my scene,” I remark as we stroll in. “But hell, at least I’m dressed for it.”

  The lobby of this expensive-ass hotel is already the nicest goddamn room I’ve ever been in, and we haven’t even gotten to the bar yet. For the second time tonight, I’ve just handed the keys to the borrowed Mercedes from Twisted Pipes to a valet, who treats me with practiced fake respect, like I’m some kind of fuckin’ rich prick.

  Ember laughs low in her throat as she walks next to me, holding onto my offered arm. “Not mine, either, if you can believe it,” she says as she points toward the bar. “Mark used to take me here when we were first dating, to impress me. But the thing is, they make a killer gin martini. And right now, I need one.”

  I signal to the bartender, who makes a ‘sit anywhere’ gesture. I expect Ember to choose a booth on account of her dress, but instead she goes to the far end of the bar and slides up onto a stool. I take the one next to her. Ember orders her martini. I ask for a coke.

  She arches a brow. “Really?”

  “I’m on duty. And I’m designated driver,” I point out. “If you’re gonna be drinkin’ martinis, one of us needs to be sober.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Have one drink with me.”

  I relent. “I’ll have a beer.” I tell the bartender my preferred brand. When he walks away to get our drinks, I turn to Ember. “Did he?”

  She looks puzzled. “Did who?”

  “Mark. Did he impress you?”

  “Oh,” she says, waving a hand, “I suppose so. I think in some ways, I was more impressed by the fact that my parents were impressed by him. Well, my mom, anyway. He was very charming. Full of romantic gestures.”

  “The flowers every Friday,” I say.

  “Among other things.”

  “So your mom was impressed.”

  “Yes. And frankly, that was saying something.”

  Ember trails off. The bartender brings our drinks just then, and takes hers gratefully, like she’s glad to have a reason to stop talking. I let her take her first sip.

  “Good?” I ask.

  She lets out a little sigh. “Very. Just the thing for winding down after an unpleasant night.”

  “So, your parents liked Mark,” I prompt. I don’t particularly feel like talking about that asshole, but it seems like she wants to get some stuff off her chest.

  Ember eyes me, takes another sip of her martini, grimaces slightly.

  “Mark worked hard to get their approval. He pretended to be interested in dad’s Corvette, for example, even though Mark isn’t the kind of guy to see value in sentimental things like that. For Mark, price tag indicates value. He would never really see the point in having an old car when you could have a new one instead.”

  She pulls a face. “I think Dad saw that in him, you know? Saw that Mark was all show. All hat and no cattle.” She takes another small sip of her drink. “When Mark proposed to me, he made a big deal out of calling my dad to ask permission for my hand. Mark wanted me to be there in the room for the call; he put it on speaker.” Ember sets the glass down. “You know, it’s funny. At the time, I never noticed it, but my dad never actually gave Mark his permission. All he said was, ‘Well, Ember’s a big girl, and she’s old enough to decide for herself.’ At the time, I thought that was very women’s rights of him, you know? But later, with the benefit of hindsight…” She trails off. “I think my dad didn’t want to give his approval. But he wasn’t the type to stand in my way.”

  Ember looks crestfallen. I remember the picture of her with her dad next to his prize Corvette, and what she said about how he died a couple years ago.

  “Seems like you miss your dad a lot,” I say softly.

  She swallows, gives me a sad smile. “I do. I’m sad at the idea that he didn’t want me to marry Mark but didn’t think he could tell me. I wish he could know I eventually wised up.”

  “What about your mom? Does she know about Mark and you splitting up?”

  “Yes. She thinks I’m an idiot. When I told her, she said, ‘You’ll never find as good a provider as Mark.’” Ember scoffs. “Forgetting that I have a career of my own, and I don’t need a provider. I needed a partner. But my mom cares a lot about money. She was pretty bitter that Dad didn’t make more than he did. That’s why she would get so angry about stuff like the Corvette. She felt like he should have been spending that time fixing up the car being more career-driven. She wanted me to have a husband who was rich enough that I wouldn’t have to work. And since Mark wanted me to stop working, too…” She grimaces. “Mom and Mark were on the same team about that, in a way. I think she’s still hoping the divorce won’t happen.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.” Ember lifts her martini and opens her mouth to say something else, but just then my cell buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out to see who it is: Rudy.

  “Hold on a sec,” I say to her, and accept the call. “Yeah,” I grunt into the phone.

  “Striker! Got a fight for you. End of the month.” Rudy names the date. “Big purse. Massive.
You go up against Crucifier.”

  Cruz Lopez. I know the guy. He’s a fuckin’ animal. He fights dirty as hell. I could beat him in a fair matchup, but of course that ain’t what this is about. Rudy calls me these days for the big fights because he knows I can throw them in a way that looks convincing. With Crucifier, the crowd is gonna come to see him do what his name says: crucify his opponent. The guy doesn’t have a volume switch — he goes for maximum pain and maximum destruction. If I agree to this, I’ll have to let him beat me bloody, but in a way that doesn’t get me seriously hurt.

  Rudy tells me my cut. With my purse, plus a percentage of the cash from all the people who are gonna bet against me, the money is good as hell. I just have to be careful not to get murdered in the process of letting Cruz beat me.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’m in.”

  I hear him grinning. “I knew you would be, man. Talk to ya.”

  Ember eyes me curiously as I hang up the phone.

  “That was the dude who books my fights,” I explain.

  “Oh.”

  Her eyebrows knit. She takes hold of her glass, downs a large gulp. When she sets it back down, eyes watering, she doesn’t look at me.

  “Hey, it ain’t a big deal,” I lie. “It’s barely a fight at all. I just let some cocky sucker pound on me just enough to make it look good to the crowd.”

  “But… Striker. That’s just crazy talk.”

  “I don’t work a desk job, sweetheart,” I say brusquely, cutting her off.

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  “I know.”

  Ember takes another drink. I take a swig of my beer. We sit there in silence for what seems like forever. I’m pissed at Rudy for ruining the moment, and I’m irritated at her for judging me.

  The bartender comes back, asks if we’ll want another round. Ember shakes her head. He moves off to get our bill.

  “I can’t stop you from fighting. I know that,” Ember finally says. “And it’s not my place to try.” She raises her eyes from her glass to lock on mine. “I don’t know much about you, Striker. But it seems to me like you’re fighting for a reason that has nothing to do with money. And maybe, instead of letting yourself get beat up for cash, you should do what you can to solve whatever it is that’s making you fight in the first place.”