3. Chapter 3
June
I stare at Striker, waiting for some indication that he understands how completely insane he sounds.
None comes.
He stands in the Red Den parking lot with blood drying across his knuckles and three men still recovering behind him, looking entirely too calm for someone who has just informed a woman he met less than an hour ago that she will not be going home alone.
“You realize you don’t actually get to decide that, right?”
His green eyes settle on me. “Looks like I just did.”
I fold my arms, immediately regret it when my shoulder protests, and refuse to let him see.
“That might work with the men in your club. It doesn’t work with me.”
“Good thing I’m not asking you to join my club.”
The bastard almost smiles.
“You are unbelievably bossy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And arrogant.”
“Heard that too.”
“I’m beginning to understand why.”
His amusement disappears when his gaze drops to my arm. The places where fingers dug into me are already darkening, and the change in him is instant. His jaw hardens. His eyes go cold.
“I’m going home,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“Alone.”
“No.”
I blow out a breath. “Are we really doing this again?”
“If you keep giving me the wrong answer.”
“That is not how answers work.”
“It is tonight.”
I should be furious.
Unfortunately, my body has also decided that six-foot-four of tattooed biker calmly refusing to leave me unprotected is something worth reacting to. My pulse skips when he steps closer, which is ridiculous considering everything else it has survived tonight.
“I have locks.”
“You had three men waiting outside a locked bar.”
“My house is different.”
“Jamie knows where you live?”
I hesitate.
Striker catches it immediately.
“That’s what I thought.”
“He’d never come to my house.”
“He’d never cornered you in a parking lot either, no?”
I hate when people make good points while annoying me.
He glances toward Jamie before looking back at me. “Men like him get mean when somebody makes them feel small. I just made him feel real fucking small.”
Cold slips through my stomach because I know he’s right.
“You drive home,” he says. “I follow. You lock your door, and I stay outside it until morning. You don’t have to entertain me, feed me, talk to me, or even like me.”
“I’m doing very well with the last one.”
His mouth curves, and the small change does entirely too much to his face. For someone built to intimidate people, his almost-smile is unfairly attractive.
Worse, I’m already learning the differences in his expressions. The cold look he gave Jamie. The quiet amusement he keeps aiming at me. The sharp focus that appears whenever he notices the bruises on my arm.
I’ve known him less than an hour.
I should not already be learning his face.
“But I’m staying.”
The certainty in his voice hits somewhere uncomfortable.
All my life, I’ve been the one who pays attention. I check locks, watch strangers, keep my keys between my fingers in dark parking lots, and make sure Eliana gets inside before I drive away.
I’m not used to anyone taking that job from me.
Striker simply decided I shouldn’t have to handle tonight alone.
I don’t know what to do with that, so naturally, I get irritated.
“If you get arrested for stalking me, I’m not paying your bail.”
“Club has a lawyer.”
“That is not remotely reassuring.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
I point at him. “Outside the door.”
“Whatever you say, little rebel.”
I freeze. “What did you call me?”
He’s already turning toward his bike.
“Striker.”
He looks back.
“Do not start giving me nicknames.”
His gaze travels over me slowly enough to send heat beneath my skin.
“Too late.”
I hate how much I like that.
Ten minutes later, I glance into my rearview mirror and find the single headlight of Striker’s motorcycle exactly where it has been since we left the Red Den.
Apparently when the man says he’s following me home, he means every mile of it.
He doesn’t crowd me or act like the road belongs to him. He simply stays there, steady behind me every time I check.
Which I absolutely do not do seventeen times. Give or take.
Somewhere along the drive, his presence stops irritating me.
The headlight becomes reassuring.
If somebody follows me, Striker will see them. If my Corolla finally decides to die, I won’t be stranded alone on the side of the road.
Depending on someone feels dangerous.
Wanting to depend on them feels worse.
Ruth’s house sits near the end of a quiet street, white siding, pale blue shutters, and a wide porch crowded with flowerpots she fusses over like children.
The porch light is on, as always.
Ruth once told me nobody should come home to a dark house if she could help it.
I nearly cried the first time I saw that light waiting for me.
Her house never feels temporary. It smells like cinnamon, old books, and whatever she cooked last. Family photographs cover the hallway, quilts hang over chairs, and the ceramic bowl beside the front door has held the same jumble of keys, peppermints, and loose change since I arrived.
I rent the upstairs room at the back, along with its small private bathroom. My window looks toward the mountains, and the floor creaks near the closet.
Two years ago, I carried my boxes upstairs and unpacked every one before I went to bed.
I had never done that before.
I pull into the driveway.
Striker rolls in behind me.
My eyes go immediately to the dark windows.
Please be asleep.
Ruth can usually sleep through nearly anything.
A light appears behind the downstairs curtains.
“Oh, shit.”
The front door opens, and Ruth steps onto the porch in a floral robe and slippers, a pink sleep mask sitting crooked across her forehead.
I rest my head against the steering wheel.
For one second, I consider reversing out of the driveway.
Instead, I get out.
Ruth looks at me.
Then Striker.
Then me again.
Her eyebrows climb.
“Don’t.”
“June Gill, I haven’t said a word.”
“You didn’t need to. Your eyebrows did.”
“My eyebrows were saying hello.”
“Your eyebrows were asking questions.”
“I have several.”
Behind me, Striker makes a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
I turn. “Not one word.”
He lifts both hands.
That gives Ruth a clear view of the blood across his knuckles.
Before she can ask, the porch light next door snaps on.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Thomas, who’s pushing seventy, emerges in plaid pajama pants, an old cardigan, and slippers shaped like bears.
He squints toward us.
“June?”
“Go back to bed, Thomas.”
Naturally, he ignores me.
His attention finds Striker.
“Well, hell.”
Ruth’s lips twitch.
Thomas walks closer. “You finally bring home a man and pick one who looks like he eats the other ones?”
“Thomas!”
“What? I’m impressed.”
My face burns.
“There is no bringing home. He followed me.”
Thomas stops.
“That sounded worse.”
Ruth nods. “Much worse.”
“He followed me because there was a problem at work.”
Ruth’s amusement vanishes. Her eyes move over me carefully.
“What kind of problem?”
“Handled,” Striker says.
She takes in his size, his cut, the tattoos, the bloody knuckles.
Then her eyes find the bruises on my arm.
“Oh, honey.”
“I’m okay.”
Striker makes a low sound behind me.
I turn. “I heard that.”
“Wasn’t hiding it.”
Ruth’s mouth tightens. “Who did that?”
“Nobody did anything. They grabbed me.”
Thomas takes another step closer. “They?”
“Three men,” Striker supplies.
I glare at him. “Traitor.”
“One woman against three men?” Ruth asks.
“I had it under control.”
Striker looks at me.
I point at him. “Choose your next words carefully.”
He actually considers it.
“You were doing great.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Right up until one of them had both your arms.”
Thomas hides a laugh behind his hand.
“I liked you better when you were quiet,” I tell Striker.
“No, you didn’t.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
Ruth notices.
Of course she does.
Thomas turns toward him. “So you handled them?”
“Yeah.”
“All three?”
“Yeah.”
Thomas nods approvingly. “Good man.”
Ruth elbows him. “You cannot congratulate people for fighting.”
“Why not? Sounds useful in this case.”
Then he studies Striker’s cut.
“What do we call you?”
“Striker.”
Ruth frowns. “No. What does your mother call you?”
Something flickers across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
“Braxton.”
Ruth brightens. “Braxton. Much better.”
I bite my lip.
His eyes narrow on me. “Something funny?”
“Not at all, Braxton.”
Oh, I like that more than I should.
Thomas introduces himself and offers his hand. Striker takes it, then turns to Ruth.
“Ruth,” she says.
“Ma’am.”
She practically melts.
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“He says one ‘ma’am’ and suddenly you trust him?”
“I’m old, June. Not dead.”
Thomas starts laughing.
Striker looks down, but I catch the grin.
“This is humiliating.”
Ruth looks entirely unrepentant. “Come inside. Both of you.”
“Actually, Striker is going to sit outside my door.”
Three sets of eyes turn toward me.
I realize too late what that sounded like.
Thomas opens his mouth.
“No.”
He closes it.
Then tries again. “Your bedroom door?”
“The hallway.”
Ruth looks at Striker. “All night?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Her expression softens.
Thomas studies him. “You planning to sleep?”
“Eventually.”
“On what?”
“Floor works.”
Ruth looks offended. “Nobody sleeps on my floor.”
Twenty minutes later, I discover she apparently has no objection to attempted murder by furniture.
The chair she drags from the spare room is tiny, with curved wooden legs, faded pink roses, and a seat that might comfortably accommodate half of Striker.
He studies it.
“You sure you like this chair?”
“Of course I like it.”
“Just checking.”
Thomas folds his arms. “Go on, son. Let’s see what happens.”
“Stop encouraging him.”
Striker lowers himself carefully.
The chair gives a long, tortured creak.
Nobody moves.
Thomas whispers, “Jesus.”
A laugh bursts out of me.
Striker looks ridiculous. His broad shoulders dwarf the narrow chair, his knees have nowhere to go, and the faded roses beneath him look like they are experiencing their final moments on earth.
I laugh harder.
When I finally catch my breath, I realize he is watching me.
The amusement in his eyes shifts into something warmer, and my laughter catches.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Heat rolls through me.
Ruth clears her throat.
Loudly.
I jerk my attention toward her.
She looks innocent.
Thomas absolutely does not.
“All right,” Ruth says. “Our work here is done.”
She hooks her arm through Thomas’s and starts steering him toward the stairs.
“I live next door,” he protests.
“Then keep walking when we reach the front door.”
He points at Striker. “If that chair survives you, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”
“No promises.”
“Braxton,” Ruth warns.
“I’ll try, ma’am.”
She beams.
Traitors. All of them.
A minute later, the stairs creak beneath them and I’m alone with Striker.
Without Ruth and Thomas filling the hallway, the silence feels closer.
“You know you don’t actually have to sit there.”
“Thought we settled this.”
“We settled that you were following me home. I never agreed to you destroying Ruth’s furniture.”
His mouth curves. “Chair’ll live.”
“You sound confident for a man whose knees are almost touching his ears.”
That gets a real grin out of him.
It changes his whole face.
My heart does something stupid, and I look away before he notices.
The house settles around us with its familiar little sounds, and somehow Striker doesn’t feel like an intrusion among them.
He came because he said he would.
He hasn’t used tonight as an excuse to push his way into my room. He hasn’t asked me for anything.
He’s simply here.
For me.
“You really plan to stay all night.”
It isn’t a question anymore.
His green eyes hold mine.
“Go to sleep, June. I’ve got the door.”
Four simple words.
They hit harder than they should.
I swallow. “Goodnight, Striker.”
“Night, little rebel.”
I should argue about the nickname.
Instead, I step into my room and close the door before he can see me smile.