On the way back to Tanner Springs, we decide to drive through Reynoldsville, and stop at the bar and grill on Main Street that Jessica’s father told us about. The bartender tells us Jessica’s friend Payton no longer works there, and that no one has a forwarding address for her. We do get Payton’s last name from him, though, and Striker promises to give that to Tweak when we get back. Like I did with Jessica’s parents, I hand the bartender my card, and ask him to call me if anyone at the bar hears anything from Payton, or about Jessica’s current whereabouts.
By now it’s dinnertime, and Striker and I decide to grab dinner there at the bar. I’m famished, and end up completely annihilating a burger and onion rings. Striker gives me a little shit about it, but when I start to feel self-conscious he apologizes and tells me he’s just joking.
“I like that you don’t eat like a bird. Women should have curves,” he pronounces, eyeing me. “You got no problems in that department.”
After dinner, we drive back to Tanner Springs. I notice that Striker grows quieter the closer we get to home. Once inside the city limits, he drives straight to my office so he can pick up his bike, then follows me back to my place.
“I’m gonna call Jude and have him come early for his shift,” he tells me as he walks me to my front door. “I need to get going to the clubhouse so I can talk to Tweak about what we found out.”
“Can’t that wait until tomorrow?” I ask, hating myself for sounding so needy. “You could come in and hang out for a while. There’s still some beer of yours in the fridge.”
“I can’t.” Striker sounds strained as I unlock my door. I push it open and turn to him in the doorway.
“Why not?” I guess it’s the lawyer in me, but the direct approach often gives me the upper hand, so I just go for it. “What’s up, Striker? You’ve been weird ever since we left the bar in Reynoldsville. Did I do something wrong?”
I could have anticipated any number of reactions, but the one I get totally surprises me.
Striker laughs.
“Wrong?” he chokes, sounding ragged. He rakes a rough hand over his face and hair. “What you’re doin’ is the exact opposite of wrong.”
“Then what…”
My words are cut off by Striker pushing me against the doorframe. His rough hands grip my shoulders, then slide downward over the fabric of my skirt, pulling me to him. His mouth comes down on mine, possessive, powerful. I moan, my eyes fluttering closed, as he devours me, tongue insistent, demanding to know me, to take me.
Time stops, gravity tilts on its axis, my core is throbbing as Striker’s hardness makes itself known. My skin turns to liquid fire as my arms wrap around his neck, instantly giving in to everything, anything he wants…
Then, suddenly, his mouth rips away from mine. Striker’s beard shadow scratches my cheek as his lips graze my skin.
“Goddamnit, if I come in there right now, I’m gonna rip that painted-on suit you’re wearing off of you piece by piece, and fuck you until you scream,” he hisses against my ear.
I swallow, my heart thudding in my ears.
“Maybe you should,” I whisper.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Goddamnit, Ember, don’t tease me.”
“I’m not,” I gasp. “I want this. I want you to.”
His fingers grip the fabric of my skirt as his mouth sinks back to mine. I whimper, the throb between my legs getting more intense. The skirt is up over my thighs, to my waist, and a second later Striker dips a finger in between my skin and the fabric of my panties. I moan at how good it feels. “Striker,” I breathe. “Please.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he says hoarsely.
The heat of his mouth sears my the skin of my neck as his fingertips begin to stroke. I gasp and wind my arms around his neck, raising my hips and silently begging him to give me what my body needs so desperately. He slides one finger inside me, then out, coating me with my juices. A jolt of pleasure shoots through me, and he growls in response. He circles my throbbing clit, finding the center of my need. I cry out. His lips crash down on mine, devouring me as I writhe beneath him, and I’m so close that before I realize what’s happening I ignite into a white-hot heat and in seconds I’m crashing over the edge as I spasm and release under his touch.
I’m clinging to him as though he’s the only thing tethering me to the earth, still struggling to catch my breath, when Striker brings his mouth to my ear, roughness of his beard branding me.
“Jesus Christ, Ember Wells,” he rasps. “You’re playin’ with fire.”
Then he releases me, and his body is gone, leaving my skin cold and lonely in his wake.
Striker stomps down the front walk toward his bike. Speechless, I watch him go. It’s only when I can no longer hear the sound of his engine in the distance that I close the door, trembling and confused.
23
Ember
I wake up the next morning to see Jude at his usual post across the street from my house, smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone.
“Mornin’, Ember. Mornin’, Bert,” he says when I emerge from the house for our morning walk. Jude leans over and gives Bert a scruff on the chin. Bert responds by leaning his whole body into Jude, tongue lolling with happiness and tail swishing back and forth like a windshield wiper. I swear, I don’t know what it is about these Lords of Carnage men, but Bert seems to love them.
“You’re here a little later than usual,” I say casually. “It’s almost six-thirty. Isn’t this supposed to be Striker’s shift?”
“Strike’s off today,” Jude replies. “I got you until nine this mornin’, then Hale’s takin’ over for the day. You met him yet?”
“Ummm… maybe?” I answer. “I think I met him at the clubhouse.”
“He’s a moody fucker — ‘scuse my language — but he’s a good dude.” Jude gives me one of his patented lady-killer grins. This boy’s young, but I bet he’s already crushing women’s hearts. “He’s on until later tonight, then I’m back.”
“Oh.” So I won’t see Striker at all today, then. I turn away, trying to hide my disappointment, and then berate myself for feeling upset about this.
Yes, I’ll admit that after he left last night, I spent the rest of the evening locked in the memory of what happened between us.
And as I lay there in the dark in my bed, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if it’s just attraction we feel for each other, or something else.
And dammit, even though it’s probably a horrible idea, there’s a part of me that wants to know. Wants to try. Wants more.
I spent most of last night tossing and turning, nervously thinking about what it would be like to see him this morning. I should be relieved that it’s Jude here instead of Tank. But instead, I’m disappointed.
Gah! Why did I ever have to meet Striker Rossi?
Since Striker has arranged for other people to take his shifts, I don’t see him at all that day, or the next day, either. I try to keep my mind off of him by busying myself with other clients’ cases, and more or less ignoring Tank and Cady’s.