STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 4

  I lean against a tree about six feet back from the road, and shake out a cigarette from my pack. I wonder how long it’ll be until the lawyer chick’s husband comes home, and what he does for a living. Judging from how rough her car started back at her office, he’s not big on car maintenance. I’m surprised she’s not driving something more expensive, a status car to match the house. Her husband’s probably one of those soft-handed types who hires out all the manual labor jobs around the house. He probably wouldn’t know how to do an oil change if you held a gun to his head. I imagine him as some asshole in a pink Izod shirt, who golfs on the weekends and sips gin and tonics on the veranda or some shit. Whatever a veranda fuckin’ is.

  I light my cigarette and take a long drag, thinking about how bare December’s garage was when she pulled into it. I didn’t notice any kids’ toys or anything like that. Her place is the kind of house a well-off family with kids would live in. I wonder whether they’re planning to have any. Hell, sure they are. That’s what people do in neighborhoods like this. Two-point-five kids, two-point-five dogs, a couple of cars that each cost more than most people make in a year, and a summer home for when the burdens of their perfect fucking life get too heavy to bear.

  Perfect. Boring. Mind-numbing.

  I wonder if that’s the life she wants. It sure as hell looks like the life she’s chosen.

  But for some reason, it doesn’t seem like it fits.

  5

  Ember

  As soon as I step inside the house from the garage, Bert is right there, waiting at the doorway as usual. Seeing his placid German shepherd face is always a comfort to me. I’m grateful for his steady, unconditional love and companionship. More than once, I’ve joked to myself that he’s everything I want in a man — strong, silent, and just happy to be near me.

  “Come here, buddy,” I croon. “Oh, my gosh, I’ve missed my pupper today, yes I have…” I kneel down and set my briefcase on the floor. With both hands, I give his face and head a smoosh as I let him lick my cheek and face in greeting. Now that I’m down at his level, Bert gets more excited and wound up, and soon I’m working not to let him tip me over.

  “Okay, B, you gotta let me up!” I laugh. “Let me change out of these clothes, and then you can have a proper snuggle with me on the couch.”

  Feeling just the tiniest bit lighter, I make my way up the stairs to the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet. I hang up my skirt and jacket, then hold my silk blouse out in front of me to assess whether I can wear it one more time before taking it to the dry cleaners.

  Inconclusive.

  Frowning, I hang the blouse up too, and tell myself I’ll decide later. Dry cleaning is an expensive consequence of my profession — and the bane of my current penny-pinching ways.

  I pull my hair out of its bun and run my hands through it, then put it back up in a loose, messy ponytail. Then I drag on a favorite pair of comfy yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that says, “Hedgehogs: Why don’t they just share the hedge?” (a present from Margot and Benji) and let out a deep sigh.

  Even though I have to work tonight, it’s still a wonderful relief to be home.

  I decide to pour myself a glass of white wine and give myself half an hour to wind down before starting on my files. Hopefully that will help me put that irritating biker bodyguard out of my mind for a while.

  And hopefully he’ll take the hint and leave, I think to myself, though I’m not optimistic.

  Instinctively, I avoid the street-facing window when I go back into my bedroom. I know there’s no way he can see me in here right now without the light on. But still, the mere idea of him watching the house makes me feel completely exposed. As I walk back down the stairs into the kitchen, I force myself not to look out of any other windows to check whether I can see Striker is out there.

  Dammit, I feel like a prisoner in my own home.

  Bert, of course, has been following behind me faithfully this whole time. I opt not to take him out for a walk, but promise myself I’ll take him out later, before bed. There’s a doggy door installed in the back door off the kitchen, so I know he can always go out and do his business in the fenced-in backyard if he needs to.

  Hopefully by then, Striker will have gone home for the night and I won’t have to deal with him.

  The glass of wine doesn’t relax me as much as I hope it will. Neither does turning on the TV and mindlessly flipping through channels for a while. When my allotted half-hour is up, I go out to the car to grab my files, and bring them up to my office to work, along with my briefcase.

  The silver lining of settling down to concentrate on client cases is that I manage to stop thinking about Striker for a while. I work through dinner, stopping only to eat some cold leftovers when my stomach starts to growl. Finally, I come back up to the surface around ten o’clock, when Bert’s whine and his cold nose nuzzling my hand tell me he wants to go out.

  I huff out a breath. “Okay, buddy,” I say, gritting my teeth. “You’re right. Time to face the inevitable.”

  Bert’s harness and leash combo are on a hook by the front door. I snap it on him, careful as always not to catch his fur. I pull on the light jacket I keep there as well, and open the door to the night.

  Bert lunges outside, excited as always to go prowl the neighborhood. As we descend my front walk, I look around, but there’s no sign of Striker’s motorcycle or the man himself. I heave a sigh of relief. I guess he must have gone home for the night. Or maybe he has gone back to Tank and told him I’ve refused his services. I hope it’s the latter.

  But the feeling of calm that washes over me is tinged with something else — something I can’t quite describe. It almost feels a tiny bit like disappointment. Which is ridiculous, because I do not want him here, and never did.

  I shake my head to clear it, then chuckle, because that’s something that Bert does. “You shake your head to get rid of all those big, complicated puppy thoughts, don’t you, B?” I ask him as he trots alongside me. Bert’s ears pivot back at the sound of my voice, and my heart melts, as it always does. This dog is the best.

  My nightly ritual of taking Bert out for his walk before bed is one of my favorite parts of being a dog owner. I don’t always love it — not when it’s raining out, for example, or snowing. But usually, it’s a quiet, peaceful time that helps me wind down for the night. It’s almost like meditating, even though I’ve never really done that. The two of us instinctively fall into the rhythm we both know so well, and his nails clack softly on the sidewalk, tapping out the pace.

  We reach the row of lilac bushes that mark the edge of my property, the street light blocked by the large oak tree in the yard next door.

  “You leave your door unlocked just now?”

  I shriek, jumping back as my heart leaps into my throat.

  Striker steps out of the shadows. “You forget I was out here already?”

  I gasp. “I didn’t see you anywhere.”

  He snickers. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point.”

  My hand is at my chest as I try to slow my hammering heart. “I told you I didn’t need a bodyguard,” I splutter.

  “And I told you it wasn’t your choice. Besides.” He glances toward the door. “You didn’t lock your door when you left your house. Anyone could just walk in while you were gone.”

  “This is a safe neighborhood,” I protest. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Tank ain’t worried about people from this neighborhood.” Striker shakes his head. “You need to be more careful.”

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but then close it again. This isn’t going to work. It seems clear to me that Striker won’t leave on his own.

  “Nice dog,” he remarks, bending down to pet Bert.

  “No!” I blurt, reaching out to stop Striker. “Bert doesn’t like strange men!” Bert doesn’t really like men at all, to be honest. He barely tolerated Mark. I tighten my grip on the leash, preparing for him to lunge.

  But to my utte
r astonishment, Bert does nothing of the sort. Instead, he lifts his head to sniff the hand Striker offers. After a moment gives it a soft lick.

  “There you go, boy.” Striker looks up at me. “Boy, right?”

  I nod, gaping at them.

  Striker registers my surprise. “He not usually like this with strangers?”

  “That’s an understatement,” I manage to croak.

  “Calm energy does it,” he tells me. “Dogs sense agitation.”

  By now, Bert is leaning his head into Striker’s hand as Striker scratches his ears. In spite of myself, I find my irritation at him temporarily melt away.

  “What’s his name?” Striker asks.

  “Bert.”

  “Like Ernie and Bert?”

  My heart squeezes painfully. “Exactly like Ernie and Bert,” I say. “We used to have a dog named Ernie as well.”

  “We?”

  “My husband and I.”

  Striker straightens. I don’t know what else to say, so I click my tongue at Bert and we start walking again. Something tells me that the biker is going to follow me. And sure enough, a second later, I hear Striker’s footsteps catching up to me.

  It’s a free country. He can walk wherever he wants.

  I should speed up, but I don’t, because it would feel too juvenile.

  “Nice neighborhood,” he rumbles after a few moments. “You live here a long time?”

  “A few years,” I grudgingly reply. “We moved here when we got married.”

  “Oh.” He waits a beat. “So, is your husband working late tonight or something?”

  “No.”

  I resist the urge to say more. It’s none of his business, frankly. And since it’s not general knowledge that Mark and I have split up, the idea of confiding this fact to a man I only just met — a man whose very presence in my life is unwelcome — just feels weird. Luckily, Striker doesn’t ask for clarification. We walk in silence down the street, with Bert leading the way, straining slightly at his leash as he always does.

  Striker doesn’t try to fill the silence, which I actually appreciate. Still, it feels awkward not talking. I know that in theory, he is here to protect me — even though I don’t want him here — so I know I shouldn’t need to be afraid of him. But it’s unsettling to be walking in the dark with a strange man. A biker, at that. And from what I understand of the Lords of Carnage, a criminal.

  We get to the end of the block. There’s a small public garden here where Bert usually does his business. Just like clockwork, he picks his favorite tree and lifts his leg to pee. Twenty feet further on, he starts to circle in place. I reach in the pocket of my jacket and pull out a plastic bag.

  “I got that,” Striker grunts, taking it from me.

  I don’t argue. A few seconds later, he stands and walks over to toss the bag in a public bin.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We walk back the way we came, again without speaking. When we reach my front sidewalk, he clears his throat.

  “So, I’ll try this again,” he says. “About your husband. I’m gonna need to know something about his patterns, what he looks like, what kind of car he drives.”

  “Why would you need to know that?” I challenge.

  Striker gives me an amused look. “Well, I’m guessing he’s probably the kinda guy who looks like money, like you do, but I still need to be able to recognize who’s coming and going at your place, and whether they pose a threat.”

  “I still haven’t agreed to this whole bodyguard thing, you know,” I remind Striker.

  “For the last time, I ain’t looking for your agreement,” he fires back. “I’m doin’ this as a favor to Tank. But if you don’t want me to mistake your husband for an intruder, you’d best tell me how to recognize him.”

  I hesitate. “He doesn’t live here. So it’s a moot point.”

  He cocks his head at me. “You’re divorced?”

  “No, not yet,” I say softly. “But we’re not together anymore, so eventually we will be. That’s not something that’s generally known, by the way. We haven’t told most people we’ve split up.”

  “Why not? You think there’s a chance you’re getting back together?”

  “Oh, no. Definitely not.”

  “Well then, why?”

  “He just…” I trail off, embarrassed. “Mark doesn’t like the idea of being divorced. For his image. He’s an investment advisor, and he thinks being married makes him seem more trustworthy to new clients.”

  “He hoping for a reconciliation?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s not going to happen.”

  “Then why not just kick him all the way to the curb? What do you care about his image?”

  I purse my lips. “Can we drop this subject? I don’t need Striker Rossi’s marital counseling services.”

  “That’s probably good, considering I’ve never been married.”

  I hesitate. “So, can I ask you something? In exchange for me telling you about Mark?”

  “That your husband’s name? Mark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shoot.”

  I point at his black eye. “What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “It looks important.”

  “Nah. Just let a guy throw a few punches at me for money.”

  I stare at him. “Do you do that often?”

  “When I need the cash.”

  “Is that… legal?”

  “You gonna turn me in to the cops?” he smirks at me.

  “No.”

  I take in his words. This man lives in a world I can only imagine. Once again, I find myself wondering if I should be afraid of him.

  “Listen, when’s your letter to Cady’s ex supposed to go out?” Striker says, breaking into my thoughts. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s changed the subject.

  “It’ll be sent in tomorrow’s mail.”

  He tilts his head, suddenly all business. “Okay. That’s when we start keeping watch on you twenty-four-seven. Either me or someone else from the club will have eyes on you all the time.” He turns to me. “Even so, I mean it. Start locking your door. All the time. Especially when you’re in the house by yourself. You got that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Striker…”

  “Look, sweetheart,” he interrupts me. “this ain’t a request. It’s an order.”

  I freeze. My breath stills in my chest.

  There’s almost nothing worse he could have said to me.

  6

  Striker

  “No one orders me around!” December rounds on me in a fury. Her eyes flash in the darkness like a lit fuse. “You got that, Striker? No one!”

  The raw rasp in her voice signals a complete break in her composure. Buttoned-up December Wells is hissing at me like a wildcat.

  “Whoa, whoa!” I take a step back, hoping maybe it will calm her ass down. “Hold up…”

  She points a sharp finger at me. “I mean it! I am not your damn property! You do not tell me what to do!”

  “Hey, that ain’t what I’m saying!” I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m trying to protect you, okay? Not order you around. But you gotta work with me on this.”

  “I do not have to do any such thing!” she cries.

  “Look…” I try, but she’s already turned away from me. Next to her, Bert looks up at her with a low whine of concern.

  “No, no…” Ember mutters. “I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  At my words, she blinks, then turns back to me. She pulls herself up to her full height, straightening her shoulders.

  “I’m going to call Tank and Cady in the morning,” she announces. “To tell them I’m dropping them as clients.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” she says, a smile playing on her lips. “As of right now, I’m no longer their lawyer. So, we’re done here. You can go home.”

  Shit. Fuck. No.

  “No,” I groa
n.

  “What do you mean, no? It wasn’t a question, Striker.” She toggles her finger between us. “This? This ends here.”

  Jesus, she can’t do this. “Look, don’t ditch them, December. Don’t do that to them.”

  I don’t know what she expected me to say, but I guess that’s not it. She blinks at me in surprise.

  “It won’t work,” she says throatily. “I can’t have someone following me around like this, giving me orders. I refuse to do it. But I’m not the only lawyer around who can handle Tank and Cady’s cases. This is nothing any competent family law attorney can’t handle.”

  But I’m already shaking my head.

  “Look, don’t do that.” Fuck, I’m actually pleading with her. “Tank and Cady, they’ve been through a lot. Tank told me Cady likes you. She trusts you. You can’t do that to them.”

  I fucking hate begging. I feel like a jackass doing it. But I can’t fucking stand the idea of Tank and Cady getting fired by their lawyer because of me. I don’t want to be the one who lets my best friend down. Not again.

  “I don’t want a bodyguard, Striker,” December says softly. “I don’t want protection. I value my freedom too much. This isn’t about Cady and Tank. And it’s not about you, exactly. It’s just…” She turns away, so I can’t see her expression. “I can take care of myself,” she finishes, almost to herself.

  “December. Come on.”

  I mirror my quieter tone to hers. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve lifted my hand, put a finger under her chin to tilt her face upward.

  Her dark eyes reluctantly meet mine. Her lips part in surprise. Her breath hitches.

  Fuck, I don’t know how it happened but all of a sudden I’m inches away from her mouth and I have to stop myself from leaning down to taste her.

  I clear my throat, ignoring that my cock is stirring in my jeans.