I don’t wait for an answer, just leave him there as I step back out into the front reception area. The middle-aged woman is standing at her desk wide-eyed, like she’s trying to figure out whether to call the police.
“You have a good day now,” I tell her pleasantly as I head for the door. “You might wanna check on your boss, by the way. I’m not a hundred percent sure he didn’t just piss his pants.”
28
Ember
Once Striker and I start having sex, we don’t really stop.
I mean, we stop so I can go to work and stuff, but… yeah. Once the barrier comes down between us, we enjoy a rabbit-like frequency of sex that would embarrass me if anyone but the two of us knew about it. By the day of the poker run on Saturday, I’ve already lost count of the number of orgasms I’ve had. And I strongly suspect that the number is higher than during the entirety of my marriage to Mark.
I feel amazing. And sexy. And a little confused. Because Striker has gone from being my bodyguard, to something else that doesn’t have a label. A dozen times a day, I argue with myself about trying to put a name to it, and just letting myself enjoy it for what it is, no matter how long it lasts.
Hi, I’m Ember Wells. Crazy, impetuous, live-in-the-moment type of gal.
Yeah, right.
And that’s how I find myself on the back of a large, low-slung Harley-Davidson motorcycle on Saturday afternoon. There’s a heavy helmet on my head, and my feet are propped up on some fold-out pegs for the passenger. My arms are clamped around Striker’s waist so tightly I’d be afraid I was cutting off his air supply, if he wasn’t so much bigger and stronger than I am.
“There’s nothing to worry about, babe.” He starts the engine. “Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
“If I start screaming hysterically…” I begin.
“If you’re that freaked out, we’ll deal with it,” he promises me. “But I don’t think you will be.”
I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs as Striker puts the bike into gear. The soft clunk sends a burst of adrenaline through me, and I flinch but don’t scream.
Then, before I can say, Stop! This is a horrible, horrible idea! the bike starts to move.
The first minute or two is like when I went on the ferris wheel for the first time as a six-year-old and spent the whole time hyper-focused on every tiny movement of the basket, convinced I was going to fall out and plummet to my death. My stomach lurches every time we go over a bump. Every time Striker turns the bike, I almost beg him to turn around and take me home. But little by little, as I make myself take deep breaths and focus on the solid warmth of his body instead of my fear, I start to emerge from panic mode. Just a little.
Enough to notice that the colors of the leaves seem more vibrant on a motorcycle than behind the windshield of a car.
Enough to notice the fresh, clean smell of the air as it teases its way past me.
Enough to realize there’s a different relationship with the road on a bike that moves and turns in harmony with it.
When we get to the spot where the poker run is set to begin, there are a lot more people there than I expected. Dozens of motorcycles line the large parking lot of a bar outside Tanner Springs called the Smiling Skull. Striker explains that the run is organized by the Lords of Carnage MC, but a number of other clubs from the area are participating.
“Fund-raising,” he reminds me. “The more we raise for Eden, the better.”
Eden herself is here, too. She’s hugely pregnant, and surrounded by a group of women and men. Striker and I go up to them and he introduces me. Eden smiles, shy and frail despite her swollen belly. Her eyes are beautiful, dark brown and wide-set, but the shadows under them remind me she’s a widow. A widow whose first months as a mother will be overshadowed by the fact that the father of her child isn’t there by her side.
Cady squeals when she sees me, running over and giving me a big hug. She announces to everyone around us that I’m the lawyer who’s helping Tank with Wren’s custody case. It seems that’s all she needs to say for everyone here to consider me a friend.
“I didn’t know you were coming today.” Cady cocks her head, glancing curiously between Striker and me.
“Where she goes, I go,” Striker rumbles. “I wanted to go to the poker run, so I asked her to come along.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Cady says, and turns to the other women to tell them how good a lawyer I am. I play along, and try to ignore the cold knot of disappointment in my gut that Striker hasn’t introduced me as a friend, at least.
The poker run gets started about twenty minutes later. All the bikes line up in the lot and someone up front gives the signal. Over the sound of his engine, Striker tells me we’ll make seven stops, and get a card at each one. We’ll build the best five-card poker hand possible, and the winner will get the prize.
“It’s not a race,” he tells me. “It’s an excuse for a long ride on a nice day.”
By now, I’m feeling more comfortable about my ability not to flip out from anxiety, so I settle in and tell myself to just enjoy the day. And I do. It’s a lot more fun than I expect it to be. At every stop, we get our card, admire some motorcycles, and I get introduced to more of Striker’s friends from the club.
By the end of the run, I’m exhausted yet exhilarated. We don’t win the poker game. Someone named Rourke, from another chapter of the Lords of Carnage MC down in Ironwood, takes that honor. They also raise several thousand dollars for Eden and the baby. When it’s all over, Striker takes me back to the Smiling Skull. It’s jam-packed with people inside, but the Lords have tables reserved for them in one corner.
“You gonna be okay for a few minutes?” Striker asks as he casually puts an arm around me. “I need to go talk to Angel, my prez.” He nods toward a ruggedly handsome man with dirty blond hair, who looks to be in his mid- to late- thirties.
“Sure, I’ll just glom onto Cady.”
“Good deal. I’ll be back for you in a bit.”
I watch Striker walk off, and wander over to the group of ladies with Cady, Eden, and some of the other women I recognize from earlier. When Cady sees me, she immediately signals to me to grab a chair and pull it over next to her.
“Ember, this is Jewel,” she tells me as I sit down, pointing to the leggy blond woman sitting next to her. “She’s Angel’s wife. He’s the club’s president.”
“The guy over there that Striker’s talking to,” I confirm.
“Yep, that’s my man,” Jewel winks. “I’m also the manager here at the Skull. The Lords own this bar, just in case no one has mentioned that.”
“They haven’t.”
“Speaking of which, you don’t have a drink,” Jewel adds. “What’s your poison?”
“Oh, um… white wine? Chardonnay?” I ask.
“Bowser!” she yells over the din of the bar. A man with mutton chops and a red bandana on his head looks our way. “Chardonnay over here!”
“Hey, Ember.” Another woman I was introduced to earlier, named Stacia, chirps. “Can I ask you a bit of a prying question?” She gives me a wink. “What’s the famous Striker Rossi like in the sack?”