The Way I Like It

by Jenika Snow

  Elena wrapped her coat tighter around her body, the chill in the air intense. She hated walking home, hated the night. But with no extra money for a car, and barely making ends meet as it was, Elena was forced to walk home at night. And to top it off, she lived in a shitty part of town, one where drug dealers and prostitutes were a common occurrence.

  Turning left on the street, she slipped her hand in her coat pocket, kept her pepper spray firmly in her grasp, her finger on the depressor, and kept her eyes open. She hated this, hated that she had to be afraid all the time. The sound of people laughing and swearing, even moaning could be heard, and Elena looked to the side and saw the neon sign for Dominion. She didn’t know much about the club, but she did know it was a popular, if not exclusive, BDSM place. She’d seen men and women entering and leaving every time she walked past it, and the bouncer by the door seemed like a brute, always glaring at her.

  Turning away and focusing on the ground, she kept walking, her thoughts clear, alert to her surroundings.

  She thought about the biker, the scary looking biker that had come into the diner. After an almost awkward exchange, he kept staring at her, almost as if appraising her; he hadn’t spoken to her again. He was big, tall, and muscular; he looked like he could kill someone with his bare hands. Maybe he had, which wouldn’t surprise Elena. She’d sensed his gaze on her the entire time, felt the sensation of him watching her, taking in every single move she made. Shivers wracked her body as she thought about that, as she imagined what it would feel like to give herself to a man that had danger surrounding him. And she had recognized danger and a good dose of violence. She was stupid to want a man like that, to even think about him. All she should be thinking is staying the hell away from him.

  And when he’d stayed at the diner until right before it closed, she thought for sure there would be problems, that he’d start shit with her, frighten her because he got off on it. But he’d gotten up, walked outside to a massive motorcycle, and left. She had breathed a sigh of relief, not realizing how tense she’d been, how on edge he’d made her feel.

  Elena walked faster, just wanting to get home, even if her apartment building wasn’t the safest or the cleanest.

  “Hey, pretty girl.”

  Elena tensed, kept her hold on the pepper spray can, and ignored the man.

  “You working the streets tonight?” he asked with amusement in his voice.

  “Nah, man, look at her clothes. She looks uppity as shit, probably keeps a lock around her legs.”

  There was a round of laughter from the two men, but Elena still kept her head lowered, focused on her feet, and prayed they didn’t escalate things.

  “Hey, I know you,” one of the guys said, and she did lift her head then. Two younger men leaned against the brick wall of an out of business building. They wore baseball caps and looked a little too clean for this part of town.

  Elena had learned long ago not to say anything back when someone in this part of town hassled her. It was safer, smarter. Most of the time she was just harassed, but one time one of the guys had tried to touch her. She’d pepper sprayed his ass and hauled hers to the nearest 24-hour coffee shop. She’d stayed there until the sun rose, until she felt safe.

  “Yeah, you’re the bitch that doesn’t talk much.”

  She didn’t recognize them, but then again she worked at the diner; she didn’t go to socialize, and she assumed that’s what they were talking about. That big ass, scary biker was the first man she’d really taken notice of, really found herself interested in, and that was not a good thing, not a smart thing to keep in her head. Putting her head down and walking faster, she felt like her heart would burst right through her chest.

  “Hey, you’re one snotty little cunt, aren’t you?” As she was about to cross the street, put a little distance between herself and them, one of the men grabbed her arm and yanked her toward them. She slammed into his body, losing her grip on the pepper spray.

  “Come on, be our friend, pretty girl,” the guy she wasn’t currently pressed up against said from beside her, his warm breath right by her ear.

  “Get off of me, or I’ll scream.” Of course, it was an empty threat. If they were in this part of town, they knew screaming wouldn’t do anything to help. Here, no one helped anyone out.

  They both started laughing and pulled her into the nearest alley. Her bag dropped out of her hand, but she’d managed to grab her pepper spray. Keeping it close to her thigh, out of sight, she struggled to get free, to get in a better position to use the spray, or knee them in the balls.

  “You sure are pretty, in a clean, not used up way,” the one holding her said, and started licking at her throat. She held in her gag reflex, twisted slightly, which only made him moan. But he loosened his hold when she stilled, probably thinking she’d stopped fighting him.

  “Thatta girl.”

  The other guy started laughing, and with the dim light of the streetlight washing over him, she could see he was touching himself through his pants. She closed her eyes, squeezed them until it hurt, and prayed she’d get out of this. But even spraying them might not be enough.

  The sound of a zipper lowering had her eyes snapping open and her fear spiking.

  “Can’t say I’ll make this good for you, but you’ll definitely be feeling it afterward.”

  Bile rose in her throat, and when the one holding her against the wall backed off slightly, going for the zipper of his pants, she lifted her hand and pointed the spray right at his eyes. Depressing on the trigger, she sprayed the shit out of his eyes, feeling a small twinge of pride when he howled in pain.

  His friend cursed and came forward. He tried to dodge him, but he wrapped his hand around her hair, yanking her backward. She was slammed against the wall, and before she could do anything, he aimed his fist at her face and connected with her temple and eye. He then punched her in the stomach until she doubled over, gasping for air. She felt blood trickle down.

  Dizziness assaulted her, and she turned her head and threw up, not able to help it as pain consumed her. She felt blood trickle down her temple and eye, knew he’d split her skin, and she felt nausea fill her again.

  “You stupid fucking bitch. I’m going to fuck you so hard you bleed.”

  She couldn’t even rise, couldn’t even fight back for how sick she felt, for how much it hurt. But Elena couldn’t just sit here and take it.

  She was hauled up, and using all the strength she had, she brought her knee up, connected with his nuts.

  He grunted and cursed, and she was hit in the face again, so hard this time her head cracked back against the brick wall. Darkness threatened to take her, but before she let it claim her, the sound of a motorcycle came closer, the deep rumble filling her head. Lights filled the alley, and she blinked back the blurriness, trying to focus. But she couldn’t hear very well anymore, couldn’t see anything but a large, imposing figure walking toward them, his voice muffled, unintelligible, and sounding like the very devil himself.

  Was he her savior, or was this her end?

  Chapter Three

  Striker had watched the young woman leave the diner, parked in an alley across the street, knowing he should feel bad, feel like a creep for doing it, but not caring and not stopping. After she’d disappeared down the street, he’d sat, debating on going after her or just ignoring this need he suddenly had for her. He’d never had this sudden, intense reaction to a woman, and because of that, he had followed her, staying far enough behind she couldn’t hear his Harley, but following her nonetheless.

  Just by looking at her, he’d seen that she was too damn sweet; this world would swallow her whole and spit her back out again.

  Fuck.

  She was alone, and even if he didn’t know her, he had a feeling she wasn’t the type of person able to really take care of herself. And by that, he meant going to any lengths.

  It wasn’t up to him to make it work, though.

  Fuck.

  He repeated that over and over
again.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  And then he’d seen her walk past Dominion. He’d been so focused on the club, his outlet for a while now, that Striker lost sight of her for a moment, his surprise that she was stopping to stare at Dominion shocking him. And then he’d found her, saw her getting pulled into any alley, and rage filled him. Two men surrounded the woman, and they were scaring her, hurting her. He pulled into the alley, dismounted his bike quickly, and rushed toward her as one of them slammed his fist into her stomach, and the other hit her in the face.

  Striker charged, not thinking, only seeing these men dead. He grabbed one man’s arm, cupped his head, and slammed him against the brick wall. The other guy’s face was red, and the scent of chemicals filled his head. Good, she’d gotten the prick with pepper spray. The asshole released her, and she instantly fell in a heap on the ground, covering her face and crying.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the man still standing asked.

  “You touched her, hurt her,” Striker said, hoping this fucker was a good fighter, because he wanted this to last. He wanted this man’s blood on his hands; he wanted to hear the crunch of bones breaking against his knuckles.

  “Yeah, we’re going to have a taste of her cunt. You want a piece, you’re going to have to get in line.”

  This fucker was dead.

  “You’re not going to touch the girl,” he said, getting ready to attack.

  “Fuck off, she’s ours.” The man on the ground got up. He looked a little dazed, but even he wasn’t ready to back away. They were assholes.

  He cracked his knuckles.

  “You’re not touching the girl.”

  “There’s one of you and two of us.”

  They charged then. Striker took the first man, slamming his knee into the guy’s dick, before spinning around, and shoving him against the wall again. The sound of flesh hitting the brick and of bone crunching surrounded him. He moved the other man away from the cowering woman and continued his attack. The one he’d just slammed into the wall was out, but his friend growled out low and charged him. Striker punched him the gut before taking the heel of his hand and slamming it into his nose, pushing the bone up. The sound of bones smashing was sweet music to his ears. He also relished the sounds of screams as he kept on with the assault.

  The man he’d thought passed out came up behind him, and using all of his weight, he pushed both of them against the wall, cracking their heads together. He didn’t stop there, landing blow after blow after blow to their faces.

  Only when he was sure they weren’t going to get up, he turned and faced the woman again. He found her crumpled on the ground. She was a full round woman, but compared to the theses motherfuckers, she was small.

  Blood coated his hands, and he wiped the remains on their shirts.

  His heart was pounding, and he was also shaking from the adrenaline. The beast inside him had grown quiet. He could clearly see the pile of men before him, and it didn’t look like they were going to get up anytime soon.

  Moving toward the woman, he saw she was now unconscious, and he released a sigh. He wasn’t going to leave her there, and he wasn’t interested in looking through her purse to see who she was and where she lived. Leaning down, he picked her up easily, and carried her out of the alleyway. Striker stood with her in his arms, hailing down a cab.

  One guy pulled up, looking really unsure.

  “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars to not ask questions and take me home.”

  The man looked at the woman.

  “Eyes to me fucker, or do you want to get mixed up in the Soldiers of Wrath?” he asked.

  The man looked at his cut, and the fear and knowledge of who Striker was associated with was clear. He instantly turned away, breaking eye contact. Climbing into the backseat, he held the woman in his arms, and told the driver where to go. Grabbing his cell, he called one of the prospects and told him where get his bike, his mind only thinking about the woman in his arms. The prospect didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t about to take this woman to the clubhouse, no matter what.

  With one arm around the mystery woman, he reached into his jacket, and pulled out several bills to pay the cab. The drive took twenty minutes, and the driver climbed out of the car to open the door. Striker didn’t say anything as he tossed the money to the man. His apartment was on the top floor, and he made his way toward the elevator with her still in his arms.

  “I should have just fucking walked away.” He glanced down at the woman in his arms. There was blood coming from the cut on her forehead, and she looked so damn helpless, bruised, and battered. A bruise was already forming across one side of her face, and her eye was swelling up. He took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, trying to stay calm. The last thing he needed was to get angry once again. She didn’t need his rage, and it wouldn’t solve any problems, not in the slightest.

  The elevator dinged open, and he stepped out and walked toward his door. With some serious propping up action and strength, he made it into his apartment. Just as he was about to close his door, the woman in his arms started to wake: panting and moaning.

  She started moving, and he quickly walked to the couch and set her on it. She twisted on the cushions, her eyes closed, her mouth parted. She started crying out, finally opening her eyes, looking around as panic set in, and she covered her face with her hands to try to hide. Cursing, he went to reach for her, and it only made her scream more. She started pushing him away, and Striker saw the terror on her face. It twisted his gut.

  Standing still, he held his hands up in surrender, to show her he was no threat to her.

  “Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

  He kept on talking until he saw the words were getting through to her. She was still sobbing, but the tears had stopped. The silence hung in the air.

  “Where am I?”

  “I brought you back to my apartment. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I remember serving you at the diner, walking home, and then I was attacked. What happened after that?”

  “I stopped those men from hurting you, but I didn’t get there in time.” She placed her hand on her face and whimpered.

  “You saved me?”

  “Those men will not hurt you again.” If he discovered one of those bastards had lived, he was going to find them and kill them.

  She took several deep breaths and stopped trying to cower from him.

  “Can I help you up and take you to the bathroom?” he asked, staying where he was, and showing her he wasn’t going to hurt her.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt or to panic if I come close.” He waited for her to respond, and she nodded, holding her hand out.

  Striker took a step toward her and held his hand out. He waited for her to slide her hand in his. Once he had a good grip on her hand, he lifted her up to her feet.

  “The name is Striker.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my name. It’s Striker.” He touched her forehead, she winced, and he pulled away. “You’re bruised and swollen, and you might even have a concussion.”

  “My head is pounding.”

  “I bet.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked.

  “My name?”

  “Do you remember it?” He was worried now. Should he take her to the hospital? Fuck, he’d not even thought about it before. She could have lost her memory, have worse than a concussion, and all kinds of shit.

  “Yes, sorry, my name’s Elena. I remember who I am and what happened.” She smiled and moaned. “I remember it all now.” She started swaying on her feet, and he helped her back on the couch.

  “I don’t think you should be on your feet.” Striker moved away from her, giving her space.

  “I’m fine, I think. My head, it hurts. We’re at your apartment?”

  “Yeah. You’re safe here, I promise.
”

  She glanced around her, and both of her hands rested in her lap. “You have a nice place.”

  He could have chuckled at her polite statement. “Thanks.” He didn’t like clutter, and his apartment reflected that. The Patches would piss themselves laughing if they saw him with a duster, but he just couldn’t stand it. “I’m not big on mess.” It was laughable. Striker just noticed his hands were covered in blood, too.

  “That’s strange, a man who doesn’t like mess.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  She shook her head. “On second thought, yes, please.”

  He moved away from her and headed toward his kitchen. Running the tap, he covered his hands in soap, and started scrubbing away the blood and gore that covered him. The pristine white sink was soon covered in red.

  Once his hands were washed, he wiped down the sink, and grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge. When he walked back into the room, he saw she was removing her jacket and wincing.

  Placing the drinks on the coffee table, he moved to help her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere. They were pretty rough with me.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking the fucking streets at night. It’s a dangerous place.”

  “Why did you follow me?” she asked, catching him off guard.

  “What?” They seemed to be saying that a lot around each other.

  “You didn’t have to follow me, but you did.”

  “I don’t know why, I just had to make sure you got home safely.”

  “I’m really pleased you followed me. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t come.”

  Elena was so damn thankful that Striker had decided to follow and save her. She wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for him. Those men would have left her for dead, and she wouldn’t have wanted to live after what they were planning to do to her.