As a result, Mark and Margot grew up with very different experiences of their family. Margot’s side has always been treated as the black sheep by Mark’s side. Accordingly, when I first met Margot at a relative’s wedding back when Mark and I were dating, she was cordial but distant. Over the years, we’ve grown much closer, especially because her little boy Benji has always been a favorite of mine. When I opened up my own law office last year, I asked her to come work for me, half-worried that she’d be offended. But instead, she was thrilled by my offer of a flexible schedule that would allow her to work around Benji’s school schedule, thus saving her the cost of day care.
I often wonder what Margot suspects about why Mark and I split. But she hasn’t asked for particulars, and I haven’t offered any. Instead, we continue on as good friends, mostly ignoring the awkward fact that I am married to her cousin in name only, and that for the time being, no one knows this but the three of us.
“I know, Margot. And eventually, I will get a life back,” I promise her. “But for now, just let me spend my evening with my paperwork and my dog, and hopefully a not-too-freezer-burnt pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I promise to have a spectacular time doing it.”
“That in itself is pathetic, and you know it,” she tsks. “But fine, I’ll let you off the hook this time. If you’ll agree to come over for brunch on Sunday. Benji is dying to see his Aunt Ember.” She checks her phone screen. “Speaking of which, I have to go pick him up from karate.”
I agree to the brunch idea immediately, and not just because it means Margot will get off my back. Benji is eight years old, and I swear he is the sweetest little boy in the entire universe. I know Margot’s son is at an age where his days of being a cuddly little love bug are numbered. It breaks my heart to think that someday, he might not call me his Auntie Em anymore. (Technically, I’m not his Aunt, but “Cousin-in-Law-Once-Removed Em” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.)
Until then, though, I want to soak up all the “nephew” time I have left.
Margot takes off to go pick up Benji from his lesson. Twenty minutes later, I finally get all my files organized into a paper ream box, put my laptop in my briefcase, and close up shop for the day.
The late afternoon sun is low in the sky as I emerge from the tiny, square building that holds my office. Lingering unpleasant thoughts about my husband are still taking up space in my head. The sun is hovering just a little above eye level, and shines directly into my eyes as I make my way to my car — which is why I don’t notice the lone figure standing next to it until I’m about six feet away.
“Need a hand with that?” he says.
“Oh!” I cry, almost dropping the box of files. My left heel catches on a crack in the cement, and adrenaline spikes through my veins as I struggle not to topple over.
The man darts forward, grabbing the box with one arm and reaching out to steady me with the other.
I take a deep breath and make sure my feet are solid under me, then squint up at the stranger. He’s tall, at least a couple of inches over six feet, with large, square hands and a solid, muscular upper body. His dark hair is cropped short. His sharp cheekbones and a firm angular jaw are accentuated by five o’clock shadow of about the same length.
“You always this skittish?” he rumbles.
The man lets go of my arm and lifts his hand to remove a pair of aviator glasses, revealing eyes that are laser-focused on me. It’s not until I see his entire face like this that I notice his jaw is swollen on one side, and the skin around his right eye and cheekbone is purple and shiny. There’s a cut on his lower lip, as well.
“I’m… excuse me, you startled me,” I manage. “The sun was in my eyes.”
The man nods, one corner of his mouth tipping upward in amusement. As I work to compose myself, I realize that, like Tank Barrigan, this man wears the colors of the Lords of Carnage MC. And that a large, low-slung motorcycle is parked in the space next to my car.
It occurs to me in a flash that maybe he’s here because he has a legal problem, and Tank referred him to me. Judging from the bruising and swelling on his face, he’s recently been in a fight. Maybe he thinks I’m the kind of lawyer that deals with assault cases. A brief shiver runs through me as I realize I’m standing alone in a parking lot with a man who may have recently committed an assault.
“I’m sorry,” I say politely, working to keep my voice neutral and not show fear. “You’ve just caught me as I’m leaving for the day. If you can call my office tomorrow, my assistant can answer any questions you might have about whether I can help you.”
I reach into the side pocket of my briefcase and fish out a card, extending it toward him. The biker looks down at my hand.
“I ain’t here to hire you,” he says.
“Then what…?”
“I’m your bodyguard.”
What?
Oh, no. No.
I had completely forgotten that Tank wanted to assign me protection. I thought I had made my refusal clear, in any case.
“I told Mr. Barrigan that wouldn’t be necessary,” I say firmly.
“He ain’t one to take no for an answer.” The man turns, walks to my car, and sets the box of files on the lid of my trunk.
“Well, he’ll have to,” I retort. “I don’t want a bodyguard.”
The biker simply shrugs. “Irrelevant.”
Dammit. I try again.
“Look, Mister…” I trail off.
“Name’s Striker,” he drawls. “Striker Rossi.”
“Mister Rossi,” I say in a clipped tone. “I don’t need protection. I’ve dealt with difficult cases before. I know how to handle myself, and I don’t scare easily.” I feel like I’m starting to babble. But I can’t seem to stop myself. “I have a large dog at home who will protect me there, if there’s any need for protection,” I continue. “Which I’m sure there won’t be, in any case. So, your services will not be needed.”
But the biker acts like I haven’t even spoken. Instead, he looks down at the card in his hand, examines it.
“December Wells,” he intones, rolling my name on his tongue. The husky rasp touches something deep in me. Something visceral. “Interesting name.”
He gives me a crooked grin that makes my skin do a weird shiver — almost as though he’s grazing his fingers along my arms.
“A guy named Striker is gonna make fun of my name?” I shoot back, trying to gain the upper hand any way I can. “Really?”
“Is December the month you were born?”
“I was born in July,” I say before I can stop myself. Why are you telling him this?
He does a double take. “Then why’s your name December?”
“You know what?” I cut him off, irritated. “I have a lot of work to do tonight. And chatting about why my parents named me December isn’t high on my to-do list of things right now, I’m sorry to say.”
He smirks. “Noted. Rude, but noted.”
“I apologize if you think me rude,” I snip. “But to use your word, it’s irrelevant. I didn’t ask your friend Tank to give me a bodyguard. And I certainly didn’t consent to it.”
“You don’t need to consent.” He lifts a shoulder. “It’s happening.”
“What? You can’t just… stalk me,” I point out, incredulous.
He snorts. “It ain’t stalking, girlie. I’d be protecting you from stalkers. That’s the idea.”
Girlie? I can almost literally feel my blood start to boil.
“I’ll call the police,” I sputter. “And tell them a dangerous biker is following me around.”
He lets out a howl of laughter. “You think the Tanner Springs PD is gonna come save you from me? Sorry, ain’t gonna happen. But you’re welcome to try.”
God, this man is infuriating. I’ve had enough. Just continuing this conversation is giving him way too much control of it.
“I’m leaving,” I say coldly. “Tell your friend Tank I refused your services.”
I move closer
to my car and reach for the door handle. Striker takes a quick step forward, blocking me. For a shocked second, I think he’s actually going to prevent me from getting into my car.
But instead, he simply grabs the handle himself, and opens the door for me.
“At your service.” He takes an exaggerated, sweeping bow.
The fear evaporates, but it’s quickly replaced by the irrational urge to slap him across his smug face, just to get the upper hand for one second. But of course, that’s not what slapping him would do. That would only play into his hands.
The only way for me to win this battle is to act like I’ve won it.
Without a single word, I climb into the driver’s side. I toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat and reach to pull closed the door behind me, but Striker shuts it for me instead.
Through the window, I meet his eyes one more time. His lips curl up at the edges. A tiny spark of desire lights up inside me, just underneath my irritation. But I push it down.
I’ve never been the type to be attracted to bad boys. The cocky God’s-gift-to-women attitude, the refusal to take no for an answer, the caveman mentality about sex and gender roles… it’s pretty much the exact opposite of what I look for in a man. Just interacting with this one for three minutes has already been an emotional roller coaster ride. And I hate roller coasters. Real and imaginary.
Which is why I hate myself for the little flutter in my stomach when his eyes meet mine.
I grab the keys and turn them in the ignition. The engine doesn’t want to start, and I have to try a few times for it to catch. Dammit. I feel self-conscious enough already, and I was hoping to make a more dignified exit from this encounter. Finally, the car roars to life. Striker is still standing at the window, and he lifts one hand and raps a knuckle on the window.
Irritated, I roll it down an inch.
He leans down until his eyes are almost level with mine. “Don’t forget your files,” he says.
He steps to the back of the car and takes the paper ream box off the trunk lid. From the driver’s seat, I pop it open, and he puts the box inside and slams the trunk shut.
Ignoring that I should probably thank him, I put the car in reverse and back out of the parking space. Striker stands there watching me, arms crossed in front of his chest, and I feel my face flame. It’s not until I’m out on the main road that I exhale a little, my muscles finally relaxing.
“Good lord,” I mutter to myself. “That was ridiculous.”
A few seconds later, the roar of an engine behind me draws my eyes to the rear-view mirror. Unbelievably, a black, low-slung motorcycle is following close behind me.
“Dammit!” I yell in the empty car. “I told you I don’t want a damn bodyguard!”
Reflexively, I speed up, even though I already know it’s silly to think I can outrun him. This car is hardly a match for Striker’s Harley. Besides, I am a very conscientious driver who never goes more than a couple of miles above the speed limit.
So instead, I’m reduced to stewing silently all the way home.
When I finally pull into the driveway of my house, I almost throw the car into park and storm out to give Striker a piece of my mind, but right now I can’t handle another defeat. So I do the only other thing I can think of. I push the remote for my attached garage, drive inside the open door, and go straight inside the house.
To hide.
4
Striker
It gave me a perverse pleasure to see the chick lawyer so pissed off when she finally understood what I was doing outside her office. And that I wasn’t about to back down.
Following behind her car on my bike now, I chuckle to myself as I watch her wave her arms around and bob her head. No doubt she’s giving me a piece of her mind in there. Like I was in there with her to hear what she’s saying.
She’s got some sass underneath that ice queen exterior, I’ll give her that. December’s a fitting name fm or her, all cool and professional in that tailored suit she’s wearing. It doesn’t take a genius to see she chooses her outfits to play down the sexy, and play up the professional. Skirt cut right at the knee, giving you a glimpse of calf and a hint of her curves. Sensible black pumps, with just enough of a heel to be interesting but not overly provocative. High heels that draw your eyes right to her ass, though I’m not sure she knows it.
She’s probably good at using that shit to her advantage. I bet the way she looks doesn’t hurt when she’s in the courtroom. I can see the male judges and attorneys practically falling at her feet with their tongues hanging out at the sight of her, just waiting for a glimpse of a little something more. She seems like the type who’s used to getting her way. Hell, I thought she was gonna blow her stack when I told her I didn’t care she didn’t want a bodyguard.
I can see why Tank warned me she’s off-limits, though. Stuck up or not, she’s exactly the sort of chick I go for, looks-wise. Wide-set brown eyes, deep enough you could drown in them. Not too much makeup, except the splash of coral lipstick that makes it hard not to stare at her heart-shaped mouth. Bangs just long enough for her to hide behind if she needs to get some distance from you. A mess of light brown hair, tamed and pulled up into a neat bun that just happens to give a nice view of that long neck of hers before it disappears into that cream blouse.
If I gotta spend my time watching over some tight-ass lawyer chick to make sure she doesn’t get offed, she might as well be easy on the eyes. And December Wells is definitely that. It might even make up for the fact that she’s probably gonna be a giant pain in my ass and fight me on this all the way.
I don’t give a shit, though. I ain’t here to do her bidding. I’m doing this for Tank. She can bitch all she wants.
Not that I think Tank is necessarily doing the right thing here. If I was him, I’d stay the hell away from lawyers, and the courts, and all that bullshit, and I’ve told him so. Shit, he’s already got Wren. He’s got Cady. Wren’s mom is out of the picture, and she ain’t likely to show her face anywhere near Tanner Springs or our club anytime soon. No piece of paper’s gonna make any of that more true.
Trying to make all this shit official in the eyes of the law? That’s just gonna fuck it all up. In my experience, anyway.
But Tank doesn’t want my advice on this one. He’s got this feeling that if he doesn’t get all this locked up — Wren legally his, Cady officially divorced so she can marry him and Wren can have a mom, too —it’ll all fade away. Go up in smoke, like a dream that was too good to come true.
I tried to tell him that in my experience, it’s just the fuckin’ opposite. You trust the law with the things that are most precious to you, and well, that’s when the law fucks you over and takes it all away.
Family law, they call it. What a crock of shit. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with keeping families together. More like using the law to destroy families that don’t measure up. Papers don’t make a family. Law doesn’t make a family. The law’s what blows that shit apart. Sky high. And when the system’s done chewing you up and spitting you out, ain’t nothin’ left.
I wanted to tell Tank to fire the lawyer bitch. To run far the hell away from this whole goddamn thing. He’s got Wren. The two of them and Cady are a family now. The best thing they could do is fly under the radar and keep their lives out of sight until Wren’s eighteen. Because the law doesn’t give a shit about people like us. The law protects the rich and the powerful. Not the people who need protection the most.
But since Tank’s gonna go through with this stupid shit, at least I can keep an eye on the lawyer while he’s doin’ it. Get a bead on the kind of person she is, see if she seems like she’s gonna take his money and screw him over. Sure enough, when she came out of that office just now, her hoity-toity attitude was exactly what I fuckin’ expected. The way she looked at me — distaste written all over her face when she registered my Lords of Carnage cut, and saw my shiner and my busted lip — she thinks I’m a thug. Which means she thinks Tank’s a thug.
&nb
sp; She tried to dismiss me with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need protection,” she said. Like she couldn’t possibly imagine a world where she wasn’t safe, wrapped up in her money and her country club life.
Well, who gives a shit what a rich bitch thinks of me. For the foreseeable future — until Tank tells me to stand down — I’m on her ass like glue. I’ll protect her, like Tank wants. But I’ll be watching her, too.
Ahead of me, I watch through the rear window as Ember Wells punches her steering wheel at a red light. I laugh again.
After a few minutes of driving, we start to head toward the chichi part of town. We wind through a residential neighborhood, the houses getting bigger and bigger as we go. Eventually, she signals and turns into the driveway of one of those colonial type places, a front porch in the center with columns on either side, and a brick stoop. White with green shutters. Flowering shrubs all around the place. The kind of place that belongs on the cover of a fancy house magazine.
December Wells, Family Fuckin’ Attorney drives all the way up to the attached garage, which opens for her, and disappears. There’s no second car in the driveway, or in the garage. Her husband must not be home yet, I guess.
I pull over to the other side of the street and shut off my engine. Officially, I’m not starting this protection gig until tomorrow, but I want to get the lay of the land now. I lift a leg over the bike and stand. The lot directly across the street from the lawyer’s house ain’t developed, for some reason. It’s just weeds and trees, a little square wooded tucked into an otherwise developed neighborhood. This is good for me, because it means surveillance will be easier, not to mention staying out of sight of the neighbors. I step off the curb and go back into the tree cover a few feet. Sure enough, I can see the house just fine, but except for my bike, I’m probably invisible from the street.
STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 3
