“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 know 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.