STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC)

by Devane, Lauren

  “They weren’t going to catch us,” Tom muttered, unsure why he was still arguing. He didn’t disagree with the changes. His father had wanted the changes—it was why Butch and the others had killed him. But pulling away from the shadows and toward the light came with a heftier price than he’d expected—like something in him had shifted irrevocably, pulling him farther away from the man he’d been, from his father.

  Max had never known this Tom.

  Max wouldn’t have liked this Tom, he realized. A man who drowned himself in liquor and avoided his responsibilities for the Storm Runners.

  A man who couldn’t get the revenge his father deserved.

  “They were,” Ace said, and Tom saw Jack deliberately look away from him. A year ago, he’d have pursued the conversation, spitting whatever shit it took to make Ace snap. Now he just wanted to talk about finding Butch—or to head back out to see if he could catch Dakota before her shift.

  The impulse surprised him, though it shouldn’t have. He’d had no intention of that kiss in her building being the last time they saw each other. It was too hot, too wild, the way the blood surged in his veins and made him want more of her from what was, honestly, nothing more than a kiss. He’d never experienced that before; the way her slender fingers had curled into his jacket as she’d clutched him closer made a fire that had banked low come roaring to life.

  And today? Today he was halfway into a bottle of bourbon with no intention of stopping.

  “I actually need your help with something, Jack,” Ace said. “Is there anything you need to do before leaving for the rest of the day?”

  “Let me just go say goodbye to Anna.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Out in the cabin with Carly. Doing some girly shit like smearing goop on each other’s faces.”

  “Oh.” Ace looked away and Tom felt a sick surge of satisfaction in the small weakness the president displayed. His father—the president who counted—he’d never have been so weak over a woman.

  I love your mother more than anything. The memory rose from his brain unbidden, called up by the false thoughts he’d had. Max had looked up from his motorcycle, from the grease-smeared wrench in his hands—to his son, working on his first restoration. This motorcycle is important. It matters. The club matters. You matter. Your sister. But I love your mother more than anything. She holds it together for me. She gave me you.

  Tom wondered how Ace was holding it together without the woman he obviously wanted. The one who wouldn’t ever let him have her.

  For the first time in months, some of the bitterness cleared. Jack left the room and Tom stood. “Do you need any extra help?”

  Ace started to nod, then looked at the half—no almost completely empty—bottle behind Tom. When did that happen? “Not today. Maybe if you can resist getting completely shitfaced, I can use you for something I have going on Monday.”

  Jack came back soon enough and the guys left, heading out to whatever Ace had planned. Looking for Butch felt more hopeless every day and Grace was probably sleeping in anticipation of her night shift. So Tom lay back on the couch and let darkness swallow him, pulling him into dreams that only served to remind him just how much of a failure he really was.

  CHAPTER 10

  Grace spent most of the afternoon with Mandi, getting their nails done and making sure their hair was, as Mandi said, “on fleek.” Her big blue eyes had been on the verge of watering when she’d roused Grace from a dead sleep for a beauty evening—a clear sign of man trouble—and Grace wasn’t strong enough to resist.

  So she sipped champagne, let the woman with the small, soft hands trim her hair and then, finally, sat with her fingers and toes under the ultraviolet light so her polish would cure. The light left just the merest impression of warmth on her skin and Mandi chattered on about the man she’d been seeing who hadn’t called her.

  “Maybe his phone died.”

  “Maybe he’s a jerk,” she said, slumping back in the chair. “I really thought he was nice, but who has time for men who don’t call when they say they will?”

  “Not me.” Tom hadn’t promised to call, but a sick part of her was still upset when she’d woke to no message. Not even a text.

  It’s for the best. It’s for the best. It’s for the best.

  “I’m so sick of men anyway,” Mandi declared, removing one hand from the lights to hold it up, palm out, as if she could push the entire gender away. “Let’s talk about something that matters.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve heard that Peter might get replaced.”

  “What?”

  “Jasmine said that she heard that Peter is going to get busted down to days and they’re going to bring in someone else. I guess there’s a question about money—like maybe he slipped his hand in the till.”

  “I didn’t know about that…” Grace made a mental note to tell her boss as soon as possible. Peter knew that Grace was a police officer—gave her the shifts she needed and any information that might help. He was a dick, but he was a useful dick.

  If someone replaced him, they’d have to vet the new guy and even if he was one of the slightly-good ones, there was no guarantee he’d be as connected in the underground as Peter was.

  Fuck.

  “I hope they don’t switch him out. He’s not as bad as he could be.” Not as bad as her first manager at the first club she’d worked at.

  “You’re right, but he’s bad enough,” Mandi said. “Sometimes I think my ass is going to have a permanent imprint of his hand.”

  Grace furrowed her brow, making a mental note to have a serious word with him about touching his dancers. Taking their clothes off for money was their choice—and she had no problem with it—but he didn’t get to molest them or treat them as his personal harem. She’d escaped his octopus hands because he knew she’d break him in half—but the other women didn’t have the protection of their service pistol or the knowledge to take him down with their bare hands, if needed.

  Another day passed and she didn’t hear from Tom. Grace decided he hadn’t felt the heat she had or maybe he’d decided he couldn’t see a stripper when she was off the stage. That was fine, then. Less complicated.

  She’d just shoved her leftover steak and salad in the fridge—still in the to-go containers they’d been delivered in—when her phone vibrated on the coffee table. Walking over to the couch, she took a sip of her wine, sank onto the soft cushions and unlocked the screen.

  Sorry I didn’t text sooner. Got busy. If you’re still willing—dinner tomorrow?

  She typed No, thanks and then started at the screen, her finger hovering over the “Send” icon. It would be simpler if she didn’t see him again—but the evening she’d spent with him was the first bright spot in a line of cloudy days. What could another dinner hurt? Aware she was rationalizing an action she shouldn’t be taking, she deleted the message and replaced it.

  Love to. I’m free anytime before 9 or after 3.

  Only seconds passed before she got the reply.

  I’ll pick you up at 5. Your place. What do you want to eat?

  Anything, before dancing for hours. She burned off so much fuel during her time on stage that carb loading in the hours before her shift was a necessity.

  How about Thai? Do you like?

  Her phone buzzed in her hand as soon as the screen went dark.

  I do. See you at 5.

  She was smiling when she washed her wine glass and cutlery. Humming when she washed her hair and dried off. Even when she drifted into dreams of rough hands and warm chocolate eyes, her lips curved up and she sighed in her sleep.

  _____

  “I missed you.”

  Tom was surprised that he said the words. More surprised that he meant them. A girl he’d dated in his early 20s had asked him once if he missed her when she was gone and he’d laughed until she’d called him an asshole and dumped him.

  Like she was with him for more than the discount coke she could buy at part
ies.

  Dakota raised her eyebrows. “I’m surprised to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t call me.” He knew he’d waited too long, but he was surprised she’d brought it up. Most women would ignore it, grateful that he’d finally been in touch.

  “And you cared?”

  “Yes.” She took another bite of the drunken noodles she’d ordered, then breathed in through pursed lips to cool the heat that must have sprung to life. He tried her order when it had first arrived at the table, and it was so hot he’d felt emasculated. “Anyway, tell me about your week.”

  Tom launched into a lively banter with her that ended with the two of them discussing the most embarrassing things they’d seen other people do. And then their own most embarrassing moments.

  “The worst part was, I had to go back into the room once my skirt was fixed,” Grace said. “To finish the speech.”

  “You’re kidding.” Tom signed the receipt and stood, walking around to pull back Grace’s chair, surprising himself. She stood and they walked out of the restaurant together.

  The night was already cloudy, morose, like a fog would be rolling in soon enough and would steal all the happiness he’d gathered from the hours in her presence.

  “I had some stuff come up.” She looked over at him, eyes wide. He couldn’t believe he’d offered another excuse that he knew was just that—an excuse. Tom spent those days curled up at the bottom of several large bottles.

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  “I know, but I want you to understand.”

  “Tom, I know what this is.” No, you don’t. “We’re temporary and I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I’m here with you. But where could this go?”

  “Why do you think it has to stop here?”

  “We aren’t forever kind of people.” That sparked his temper and he pressed his teeth together to keep from snapping at her. He knew where she worked and where her apartment was. Temporary things Dakota could change in a heartbeat, if she desired.

  She studied him with those eyes like liquid gold and not knowing who she was ate at him in a deep, dark place.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why does it matter so much?” She stepped forward, rose to her toes, and bit his bottom lip, letting her lips graze it as it slid out from her teeth while she met his eyes. “It’s just a name.”

  “Because I want to know you better.”

  “You even said this isn’t anything real.” Her lips pressed to his again. His cock went rigid in his pants, which just pissed him off more. She was distracting him—the way he’d done to every woman ever to spread over his sheets—and for once he didn’t want that.

  “It’s not.” It is. “But I want your name.”

  “You don’t get my name.” Grace shrugged and stepped back, her eyes closing like steel doors, heavy and finite.

  “It’s just a name? Why won’t you tell me? Or what, am I just another client to you?” He tried to keep his stupid goddamn mouth closed, but it was like he couldn’t stop. “Just waiting for me to slide a few dollars on the nightstand?”

  “Fuck you, then,” Dakota said. “Get out of here.”

  “Dakota…”

  “No,” she said, raising her hand. “You’re not going to stand here and demean me because I won’t give you what you want. How does that make you better than anyone else at Ladies Night?”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “You still said it. Just go.”

  “Let me take you home.”

  “Not if you were the last man in the world.” When he stood, unmoving, she pointed at the restaurant behind them. “I’ll go inside and call a cab, but I’m not going anywhere with someone like you.”

  “Fuck this.” Tom glowered at her, then stalked to his bike. “I don’t need this shit. I’m gone.”

  He could feel her glare burning into his back as he mounted the bike, started the engine and sped out so fast that gravel sprayed behind him. But he didn’t slow down or look back.

  CHAPTER 11

  He left pissed, with a head full of steam. But an hour later, he turned the bike around and headed back in the direction of the Ladies Night. With all the shit Butch and his minions were pulling in Detroit, he wasn’t going to leave Dakota unprotected. A few nights off the search weren’t the end of the world.

  Even if she didn’t want to see him again.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you.” Dakota stood there holding a tray of drinks.

  “You waitress now?”

  “I told you that I didn’t want to see you.”

  “I was an asshole,” Tom said, putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry. You said this was nothing and it’s not nothing. Not to me. I…I like you and I hate not knowing who you really are.”

  It was like the words were a physical blow. She didn’t move, didn’t unbalance the heavy tray of drinks, but her face went softer.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I don’t have a problem with your job. I just took a shot where I thought it would land.”

  “Okay,” Grace said, studying him like she was searching for a sign of sincerity. “But if it happens again, we’re done.”

  He smiled, grateful. “So why are you hauling around drinks tonight?”

  “We’re shorthanded and it’s a big night for bachelor parties. I’ll be on stage soon enough.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, balancing expertly on what looked like long, metal toothpicks. Still, he couldn’t deny the way his eyes were drawn up her shapely legs. “Honestly, I’d rather serve drinks all night. You get less attention that way.”

  He could see how strong her arms were and wondered if the muscle tone owed itself to pole work or to hefting heavy trays of drinks and fried snacks.

  “Go serve,” he said, not wanting to make her hold them longer than necessary. He’d already kept her too long trying to get back in her good graces. “Come by when you can. I’ll be here all night.”

  “I told you that’s not needed.”

  “I don’t care.” He slid onto the barstool and raised a finger for the bartender. “When your shift is over, I can take you home or we can get some food.”

  “I drove over.”

  “Then you can drive me back to your place and I’ll walk back to get my bike. It’s not far.”

  “Tom…”

  “Go serve your drinks.” He turned away from her and placed an order for a beer.

  The rest of the night was slow, except for the few stolen moments he had with Dakota. At one point, she switched out the bright blonde hair he knew was a wig now for a cotton candy pink one that tumbled down her shoulders in ringlet curls.

  “What color is your real hair?” he whispered in her ear when she leaned against the bar to place another order for a rowdy group of men sitting in chairs near the stage where a buxom redhead danced. “Is it that silky black I see you with in public? Or is that a dye?”

  “That’s my real color,” she said, and the information felt like a prize. He craved anything real about her. When he’d decided that she was better off without him and didn’t contact her for two days, he could still feel her pull all the way from the shift he pulled at his bar. From his bed, where he twisted in the sheets sleepless at the thought of her gentle curves.

  She walked away, the scent of magnolia lingering behind her. Tom inhaled deeply and took another slow sip of his drink, careful not to slip down the path that ended at the bottom of a bottle. If he was going to look out for her, he was going to do it with less than two drinks in his system.

  He closed his eyes, centering himself when all the chaos inside pulled him back to the image of his father’s bullet-ridden body in the downtown morgue. Only this time, it was Dakota he saw through the window. Dakota he couldn’t save.

  Maybe he should have seen that counselor Carly recommended during one of their late night drinking contests.

  He felt a soft body close to his back and
relaxed, recognizing her scent. “I forgot to ask if you wanted to do breakfast with me and Mandi, if you’re so determined to stick around.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “You can follow me to her place so I can drop her off, then head home.”

  “I’ll follow you home too, at least. A gentleman doesn’t leave a lady to make her way home after dark.”

  When she only sighed and didn’t argue, he grinned.

  _____

  Grace shoveled another bite of pancakes into her mouth, almost choking as Mandi made another face, describing her mother’s reaction to finding out she’d taken up stripping. Tom abandoned his food moments before, unable to keep from laughing at the woman’s antics. His omelet sat cooling on the plate.

  “She started to tell me to leave—Mom’s like that. Very southern. Very dramatic. Then I offered to finish paying off her car, and the next thing you know, she’s talking about my ballet classes and how she always knew I’d be a dancer.”

  “Is she still down with it?” Tom asked, shaking his head as he reached for his cup of coffee.

  “I pay her rent.” Mandi said with a shrug. She rolled her eyes. “She works less now and can watch more soap operas, so she’s put her fake morals aside. I don’t think she mentions it when she’s getting her nails done, though.”

  “God, she’s such a piece of work,” Grace said. “I don’t know why you over there so often.”

  “She makes really good pie.” Tom laughed again, watching Grace lick syrup off her finger. The twist of her pink tongue over her finger brought his mind to images of her doing the same to his cock and he took a deep breath.

  “I think that’s it,” Grace said, sitting back and surveying the last bites of food scattered over their plates. “I’m ready to crash.”

  “Me too,” Mandi said. “I’ll get the check.”