STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC) (6 page)

CHAPTER 9

“
W
here’d you disappear to yesterday?” Jack kicked back on the couch and raised his eyebrows. “I went to meet up with you and couldn’t find you anywhere. Usually you’re easier to spot than a snitch.”

Tom sneered at him and took another swallow of bourbon. Today was a bourbon day. “Met a woman.”

“And ended up back at her place? Because you weren’t at your apartment either.”

“This is your business how?” Tom immediately swiped a hand over his face and cast an apologetic look at Jack. The man wasn’t just his brother; he was his friend. “Sorry, man. That girl from the strip club the other night—I ran into her and took her to grab a bite to eat.”

“How was it?”

Tom knew he was asking about the sex—being domesticated hadn’t stopped Jack from listening to his brothers talk about the women they bagged, though comments about his old lady were of the table. But he wasn’t in the mood to talk about not taking Dakota home to her apartment, or the fact that he still didn’t know her real name.

“Didn’t seal the deal.”

“Surprising.”

“Why? Because she strips?”

“No,” Jack laughed and poured each of them another drink. “Because I can’t remember the last time that pretty boy face of yours didn’t land you in a woman’s bed with the least possible effort.”

“Maybe I’m getting more discerning,” Tom said.

“What’s the bug up your ass today?”

“I didn’t sleep well.” Thoughts of Dakota had haunted him all night. 3 a.m. found him scrubbing in the shower, unsure whether the ghost of her jasmine perfume was on his skin or just in his memory. It didn’t help him sleep; sunlight was already kissing the sky by the time he dozed off.

“You’ll crash hard after the party tonight,” Jack assured him. He’d sipped two drinks in the time Tom had taken to drink six. For the first time in months, he thought maybe he should slow down.

“Don’t feel like celebrating.”

“It’s not a celebration. Just an excuse to get together and do something other than work on new ventures.”

“The guys seem to be adjusting well.” A thread of something—a nervous undertone, maybe—in Jack’s voice had Tom pushing through the alcohol-induced numbness. “Are they still complaining about getting rid of the last shipment of weapons?”

“No complaints that I’ve heard.” Jack was the enforcer. If there were complaints, he’d be on top of them and ready to silence the offender by any means necessary. “But moving from one beast to another is hard on everyone.”

“We’re making more money now,” Tom pointed out. Going legitimate had actually had a positive impact on their wallets after a few months. Good help wasn’t hard to find, especially in a town with a level of unemployment like Detroit. As soon as word got out that there were clubs, bars and other establishments that straddled the line but didn’t cut into an honest worker’s wages, they had some of the best lining up.

Maybe he could entice Dakota over to one of their joints. The protective flash that ignited inside him made Tom wipe a shaky hand across his mouth. Why would he care if other men looked at her? She wasn’t his woman, and if she was happy stripping, that was all that mattered. Besides, she was good.

Too good. Just the thought of her had him uncomfortably adjusting his pants.

“I’ve been listening to make sure none of the guys have any sidelines that we’d have to shut down,” Jack continued. “But everyone seems on the up and up after that last round of cuts.” The last round of cuts had been the men staying in the club to spy for Butch. They’d ended up in pieces in the far northern woods near Canada.

“Good,” Tom said. “So we’re past phase one of pulling the club out of drugs and guns. Hallelujah.”

“Don’t sound so bitter,” Ace interrupted, walking into the room. “Most of us—hell, maybe all of us—weren’t far away from having a one-way ticket to federal prison. Personally, I’d rather write shift schedules than go away for a minimum of 20 years.”

“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

G
race 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 parties.

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.