A laugh that makes me want to do filthy things to her. Make her gasp. Make her moan my name.
Fuck…
The whiskey isn’t enough to dull my desire for her. Not nearly enough. I lie in bed and finally give in to what I’ve wanted to do all night.
My cock is throbbing, even before I fist it. Even before I start stroking, slow as I can stand it.
In my mind, I’m leaning her backwards over the kitchen island. Her head falls back, throat exposed. Those lips part as he eyes close. Her legs fall open.
I plunge myself inside her hot, wet pussy. She cries out.
My balls tighten. I stiffen.
Then, I explode, Ember’s name ripping from my throat as I shoot. I come so hard I see stars.
Off limits. She’s off limits, I remind myself as I drift off to sleep.
13
Striker
A few days pass. We get into a rhythm, Ember and me. She stops bitching about the Lords guarding her, even though I know it still pisses her off. And I pretend I’m just doing it for Tank, and not because I want to be near her.
One morning, right before eight a.m., I show up for my shift and find Jude in the backyard with Ember. He’s turning on the charm, like the fuckin’ asshole that he is. And even though I know he’s too young for her — even though I don’t see any flirtatiousness in the way she talks to him — it pisses my shit off.
I move Jude’s regular shift back a couple hours, from ten at night to six in the morning. Just in case.
The new schedule means I have to be up early as hell. But this way, I get Ember pretty much all the time when she’s awake. Which means I’m there every day when she comes out of the house to take Bert for his morning walk.
I don’t ask myself too many questions about why I want that. I just do it.
On Sunday morning, Ember comes out of the house at her usual time. In one hand is Bert’s leash. In another, a travel mug of coffee. She comes down the walk and starts down the sidewalk in their usual direction. I fall into step beside her.
“‘Morning,” she greets me absently.
“‘Morning back. You want me to take the leash?” I ask.
She hesitates, then hands off Bert to me. “Thanks. I didn’t sleep very well last night,” she admits. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Any particular reason?”
She blinks. “Not really, I guess. I’ve just never been a very good sleeper. Sometimes I take a pill to help me, but I don’t like doing that unless I have to.”
Now that I’ve been doing it a few days, walking Bert with Ember feels kind of nice, even though I’m usually dead asleep at this hour. The air is still cool and crisp, and there’s hardly any car traffic, so the neighborhood is quiet. It’s just the three of us, our footsteps in a soft patter that’s starting to sound familiar to me.
“By the way, I have a thing to go to today,” Ember says.
“What’s that?”
“I’m going over to Margot’s house for brunch. You know, my assistant? To see her and my nephew, Benji. Well, ex-nephew. Sort of,” she corrects herself.
“Okay.”
She glances over at me. “The thing is… I mean…”
“She doesn’t know you’re being guarded,” I finish for her.
“Yes,” she sighs.
“No problem. She doesn’t have to know I’m there. I can make myself invisible.”
Ember looks relieved. “Thanks. I mean, it’s just kind of awkward, you know? If I was going to tell her, I should have done it by now. Not that it’s any big deal, but it’s just kind of hard to explain without it sounding weird.”
I wave a hand. “Stop tryin’ to convince me. I got it.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop blabbering.”
After Bert’s walk, I hang out outside and toss a tennis ball for him in the front yard for a while. Ember goes in to shower and change. When she comes back out, she’s dressed in a casual, faded pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. A pair of aviator-style sunglasses is hooked into her V-neck collar. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a pair of casual black knee-high boots with just a little bit of a heel. She’s got on a little bit of makeup — not much, just some eyeliner and mascara and some berry-red lipstick — and a simple gold chain with the tiniest heart I’ve ever seen around her neck. She’s carrying a thin windbreaker in one hand, and one of those backpack purses slung around one shoulder. The whole effect makes her look more carefree than I’ve ever seen her — casual and understated. I don’t know why, but just watching her bounce down her front sidewalk like that makes me want her so bad it hurts.
I offer to drive her over to Margot’s in the Tahoe, and tell her I’ll even park a ways away from the house if she wants me to. She agrees, and tells me she needs to stop at her office on the way, to pick up some papers she forgot to bring home over the weekend.
I drive her over, and wait outside in the parking lot as she goes inside. When she emerges a few minutes later, her face is pinched.
“I looked through the mail that came yesterday,” she tells me once she’s back in the car. “Wren’s birth certificate came.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She waits a beat. “Tank isn’t listed on it as the father.”
“Well, shit,” I murmur. “That’s bad, ain’t it?”
“It’s not good,” she agrees. “It would have helped if he was, but I’m not surprised. It’s not the end of the world.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means we move on to the next step. Contacting the birth mother.”
“Jess?” My lip curls in disgust.
“Jessica Anderle, yes.” She eyes me with curiosity. “Do you know her?”
Do I know her?
Loaded question.
Fuck yes, I know her. All the Lords do. She hung around the club for a while a few years ago. Never got to the status of club girl, though. In fact, the MC’s club girls hated her. She was just a lay, but she wanted to be more. She sniffed around me and Tank in particular, and both of us had our fill of her, back in the day.
I got sick of her pretty quick. She was clingy as hell, but she never wanted to do any work around the clubhouse like the other chicks did. She’d lay around on the couch, snorting or shooting whatever drugs she had and trying to get any and all of the brothers to pay attention to her. One night after she picked a screaming, clawing fight with one of the old ladies, Angel finally had enough of her shit and banished her. We never heard another word from her until more than four years later, when little Wren showed up on Tank’s doorstep.
That fucking cunt sold her own kid down the river in the end, and almost got us all killed. Hell, she did get our brother Lug Nut killed — and made a widow out of Eden, his old lady. I’d wring the bitch’s neck if I ever saw her again. The only smart decision she’s ever made is not to show her goddamn face around here since that all went down.
“Yeah,” I simply grunt to Ember. “I know her.”
She looks like she wants to ask me more, but she doesn’t. “The birth certificate for Wren came from two counties over from here,” she says. “So that’s where we check next for Ms. Anderle. Hopefully, there will be some sort of home address listed in the records.”
I snort. “Good luck with that. Our computer dude, Tweak, has looked for her already. Didn’t turn anything up.”
Ember purses her lips. “I remember Tank mentioning something about him. How recently did Tweak look for her?”
“Maybe six, eight months ago.”
“Can you bring me to talk to him, Striker?”
The way she says my name takes me by surprise. It’s not like she hasn’t said it before, but this time it feels natural. Like I’m a friend of hers. Someone she trusts.
It makes me feel a little funny inside.
“Sure,” I say gruffly.
Ember beams. “Thanks. If we can find her, we want to talk to her about whether she’d be willing to sign away her par
ental rights. Which I’m hoping won’t be a huge hassle, since she clearly doesn’t want to be a parent, anyway.”
“You don’t know Jess. If she can make a fucking mess out of something, she’ll do it just to be an asshole.”
“God, I hope not,” Ember says, her smile fading. “This part is going to be a little like poking a hornet’s nest, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
She exhales. “Well, because if she doesn’t agree to let Wren go, we may have a fight on our hands. A fight that’s going to end up in court. And frankly, a biker with Tank’s profile is going to get a lot of scrutiny from a judge.”
“But he’s a hell of a lot better parental choice than a junkie mom who abandoned her daughter,” I argue.
“I don’t doubt it. But the problem is, depending on how things go, a judge might feel that it’s in Wren’s best interests to be removed from her biological parents completely. Placed with a family that could give her a more normal life.”
“Like fuck it is!” I scowl, slapping my hand on the dash. “Anyone who sees Tank with that kid knows there’s no better father for her!”
“I know, Striker,” Ember soothes. She reaches for me, puts a hand on my arm. It sends a jolt of something through me, and Ember must feel it, too, because she pulls away a second later, like she made a mistake.
“I know,” she repeats, more softly. “Believe me, I’ve seen the way Tank and Cady are together. I’ve seen the way Tank talks about Wren. But I’m not the decision-maker.” She inhales deeply, then lets her breath out in a rush. “All I can do is give this my best shot, and keep Tank and Cady informed about all the possibilities, every step of the way. But there’s no use in pretending that there aren’t possible road blocks. We can’t avoid them if we act like they aren’t there.”
I don’t say anything. I know she’s probably right about everything she just said. But I can’t fucking stand to think about this not going Tank and Cady’s way. The idea of Wren being taken away from them makes me want to puke. I know I don’t have any right to be mad at Ember about it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not.
“I’ll take you to Margot’s,” I say through clenched teeth. “And after you’re done there, I’ll take you to see Tweak.”
14
Ember
“Oh, my God…” I moan when Margot opens the front door. “It smells heavenly in here.”
“I made an egg bake with ham and cheese. It’s in the oven,” Margot answers as she lets me in. “I can never tell if you’re managing to feed yourself, since you subsist mainly on yogurt and granola at the office. I figured if I invited you over for brunch, at least I’d know I was getting something substantial in you.”
“I eat,” I toss back. “Though I’ll grant you I don’t cook as much as I used to, since there’s only me at home. Most of the time, it seems easier just to make a sandwich for dinner or something.”
“I hear you.” Margot turns and heads toward the kitchen. “I’d probably never cook if it wasn’t for Benji, honestly. Speaking of which…Benjamin! Your Auntie Em is here!”
From one end of the house, I hear a loud whoop, and then a second later my nephew comes barreling down the short hallway from his bedroom, carrying a small model helicopter one hand. He runs toward me, but instead of coming in for a hug, he makes a thup-thup-thup sound, imitating the whir of its wings, and flies it around me in circles until Margot tells him sternly to stop.
“Errrrrk!” Benji cries, as though slamming on his brakes. He comes to an abrupt halt in front of me, and I laugh and grab him by the shoulders, pulling him in for a hug.
“Hey, buddy, how you doin’?” I ask as he clamps his arms around my waist. “Wow, you’re full of energy today!”
Margot eyes me with an exaggerated expression of suffering.
“You don’t know the half of it. Good lord, this boy is gonna be the death of me.” Still, her face softens as she gazes at her son. “Are you excited to see your Auntie Em?” she asks him.
“Come play Minecraft with me!” he asks immediately, in his zero-to-sixty way.
“Is that that game you tried to teach me last time?” I ask.
“Yeah!” Benji says excitedly. “Can we?”
I glance at Margot. “Only if you want to,” she mouths.
I am not a gamer, and all I remember from last time is being absolutely bewildered the more Benji tried to explain it. But his enthusiasm is so contagious I can’t help but say yes.
“Okay, we’ll play until brunch is ready, how about that? And then you’ll have to give me a little time to hang out with your mom.” I look at Margot. “Does that work?”
“Perfect. The egg bake has about twenty-five minutes or so to go.”
“Lead the way, Ben,” I tell him. He races ahead of me toward the living room. I exchange a chuckle with Margot and follow him.
Margot’s house is an oasis. It’s teeny-tiny — smaller in square footage than the first floor of my own house. Their one bathroom is so small that you have to dodge around the door to close it. Benji’s room is the size of my bedroom closet.
But there’s love here, and that makes all the difference. It’s homey, in a way that my own house has never been. I sit down on their worn couch beside Benji, and as he hands me my controls, I relax easily into being not December Wells, but just Auntie Em.
It’s been too long since I’ve been here, I tell myself. I resolve to do better.
Margot is divorced, and has been the entire time I’ve known her. Benji’s dad split on her not long after he was born. I never met him, but Margot said she was actually happy when he left.
“Being married to him was like having two babies instead of one,” she told me at the time. “He was not dad material in any way, shape or form. At the beginning of the split, he was so thankful I didn’t want him back that he was pretty good about giving me money for Benji’s care. Then lo and behold, as soon as the divorce papers were signed, he skipped town and that was the end of that.” She shrugged. “I guess I could’ve gone after him for the child support, but the fact is, I figured we were better off without him. Benji and I get by on our own.”
And they do. Margot is a fantastic mom, and she loves her little boy more than anything. And I love both of them with all my heart. This is a big part of the reason I’m motivated to work so hard in my law practice. I know that Margot’s job working for me is what pays her rent and keeps food on the table for her little boy. I can’t fail, because Margot and Benji need that salary.
Benji chatters at me the whole time we’re playing Minecraft. He’s more patient than you’d expect an eight-year-old to be, spelling out the rules to a clueless adult, but I feel pretty dumb, and I’m more than a little impressed at how quick and agile he is at this game. I know there are people who think video games rot your brain, but I’m not sure I agree. Margot has told me that it has been hard to limit Benji’s screen time, though, because apparently these games are super addictive. I can definitely see that from the intense, glazed expression in his eyes as he plays. Half an hour goes by quickly, and before I know it, Margot appears in the doorway.
“Benji, stop the game and go wash your hands. It’s time to eat.”
“Aww!” he complains, but he presses pause anyway and races away to do as she says.
“How’s it going?” Margot asks me with a wink.
“Whoosh!” I say, skimming my hand about six inches over my head. “I have no idea what ninety percent of it is about. But it’s fun watching Benji play, anyway.”
“Thanks for doing that. He begs me to watch him, and he keeps up such a constant narrative about that game. You’d think I’d be a master at it by now, with as much as he talks about it.”
Brunch is delicious and relaxing. Margot calls a moratorium on talking video games, and Benji happily switches to the topics of school, karate, and his friends. He chatters away, and though this means that Margot and I don’t have a lot of time to talk, I still love the feeling of being with family. For t
he millionth time, I remember to feel grateful that I haven’t lost these two just because Mark and I have split up.
I eat enough egg bake to stuff myself silly — encouraged by Margot pushing me to have seconds, and even thirds. By the end of the meal, Benji is antsy and practically wriggling in his seat to leave the table. He wants to go back to his video game, but Margot nixes that idea.
“I think you’ve had enough screen time for a while. It’s a nice day. Why don’t we go outside for a bit?”
Benji looks like he’s going to argue, but then his face lights up. “Can I get out my Razor scooter?”
Margot nods. “Sure, as long as you’re careful.”
Benji whoops. “MayIpleasebeexcused?”
Margot tips her head at him, cocking a brow. That’s all Benji needs. He’s out of his seat and barreling toward the side door toward the garage before Margot can even say yes.
“Helmet!” Margot calls after him. “And stay on the sidewalk!”
“I know!” Benji yells back as the door slams closed. He’s only eight years old, but his tone is already getting that twinge of teen irritation at being told what to do by his mama.
“Is the scooter new?” I remember Benji had gotten one as a gift on his last birthday, but he left it in the driveway and Margot accidentally ran over it. She refused to get him a new one, telling him he needed to learn to be responsible for his things.
“Yeah. A neighbor down the street got it for him.” Margot purses her lips. “He moved in about a month ago. Benji has already figured out how to read him like a book, so he told him the whole sob story about how I ran over his last one, and all of a sudden — new scooter!” She clucks her tongue. “I didn’t have the heart to send it back with John and be rude about it.”
“Hmmm… John, eh?” I scrutinize her face for clues. “How old a guy is he? Is he single?”
“Oh, maybe forty or so. And divorced.”
STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Page 9
