STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC) (8 page)

—she snapped.

The stars rushed in and she exhaled on a long moan, all the wound-tight muscles and expectant pressure blowing out and pure pleasure washing over her body like a warm wave. It sunk into her while Tom eased off, kissing her gently, licking slowly, pushing her though one more swell of bliss.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, kissing her thigh and then pulling her into his arms, letting them both recline on the couch. He stroked her hair and kissed her neck, gentle and comforting—and even in the warm afterglow that thrummed around her, she was surprised that a man like him could have such a light, perfect touch.

“Just one minute and we’ll keep going,” she said, though the room was already hazy at the edges and the long day that came before had taken its toll.

“No more tonight,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”

“But what about you?”

“You are what I want,” he said. “Seeing you go over like that—it was beyond hot.”

“But…”

“Another time,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Just rest.”

So she did.

_____

She said his name when she went over the edge.

While she dozed in his arms and he watched the clock, knowing that he needed to get back to the clubhouse to get some sleep so he’d be closer to the bar and could do accounts in the morning, his mind was whirring.

He didn’t know her real name, but he knew how she felt when she came apart.

A woman was the last thing he needed right now, but she made him feel alive again.

Finally he pulled her tighter against him and stood, crossing the room to set her on her bed and slide the covers up over her naked body.

“I’d stay,” he said, tucking the duvet tighter around her, “but I have to go into the club in the morning. I don’t want to wake you up early.”

“Good,” she said, a small laugh escaping. “I had a very strenuous night.”

He kissed her, brushing back her hair with his fingers. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

She fell asleep before he left the room.

CHAPTER 12

“
L
ate night. Any leads?” Ace was cleaning up the clubhouse bar when Tom walked in. The first rays of dawn already slipped over the horizon.

“None,” Tom said. “I was out with Dakota tonight, not hunting Butch.”

“You look remarkably sober.”

“And you still look like an asshole.” Tom started for the stairs, and stopped when Ace spoke again, turning in his tracks.

His once-friend was standing with his elbows braced on the wet bar, looking intently at Tom. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than the year before.

“I didn’t mean to come off like an ass,” Ace said. “I meant that it was nice to see you sober.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Tom turned back to the stairs and started heading up.

“I miss him too, you know.”

“You weren’t his son,” Tom said. “He was my father and you don’t even care enough to avenge him. Don’t pretend like you understand what I’m going through.”

Ace lifted his hands, a gesture of peace. “Max wasn’t my father, but he was the closest thing I had to one. Running the club without him is like performing surgery blind, Tom. We all lost him. But, fuck, man, I wish we didn’t lose you too.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t come on the runs with us. I know you’ve been juggling shifts so you don’t have to be on the rotation. I haven’t seen you at most parties or barbecues since you found out about Butch. You’re slipping man—and I’m letting you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m letting you because I think maybe you’ll find that asshole and make him eat lead. We all need that to happen. But fuck, Tom. Most of the time, I want to punch you in the goddamn face and drag my friend out of this asshole walking around that looks just like him. But if I do that and you come back to life, maybe we don’t find Butch.” Ace sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I have the club. Jack is barely managing to get rid of the last of our stock at a profit and Crash is completely focused on getting the new businesses up and running. None of us have the ability to go after Butch the way you do, and most of the new guys—the guys that weren’t at the bar the night Max was killed—they don’t know Butch like we did.”

“Thanks for the vent session, counselor,” Tom said. “I’m going to bed. You think you’re running the club, but you’re really running it into the ground. I’d rather still be bagging coke and taking guns down south than opening fucking strip clubs and bars. I don’t know what the fuck my dad saw in you, but I don’t have any of his faith.” He felt like a miserable shit for saying it, didn’t mean any of it, but didn’t take it back.

“Taking the club straight—making it about freedom and the machines instead of drugs and other downward spiral shit—that was your dad’s plan. I’m here for that. If you’re not, you can get the fuck out.” Tom looked at him, mouth open, but didn’t respond. Ace scrubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed. “I don’t want that. I don’t have the time to devote every second to finding Butch,” Ace said, not taking back his harsh words. “But I do have you. That’s where my faith is these days. I just hope that once he’s dead, you’re the man I came up with.”

Tom was shocked enough that he almost went back to the bar and sat down. But instead he just nodded and left the room. That night, he thought of Dakota and the way her nose crinkled when she laughed at her friend. That led to memories of how he used to laugh with Ace, Crash and Jack—not to mention the others who were all bones and dust by now.

He’d spent so much time thinking about the people who died, he’d stopped thinking about his friends who were still alive.

Then he thought of Butch’s grin the last time he’d seen him, pulling away from the house where women were kept in chains.

It wasn’t enough.

The man had to die.

_____

Two more weeks and seven more dates. Tom was at the club more than any of the individual bouncers and the night she’d spent at Thunder while he served drinks and flirted with her in the slick wood, leather and chrome club was a nice change up.

That night, she’d paid him back in kind for the pleasure he’d given her on her couch. The leap of his muscles and the few sounds he made while she licked and sucked and kissed his swollen flesh were beyond arousing. It was all Grace could do to stop herself from crawling up his tight, muscled body and riding him until they both found bliss together. But something held her back—and it wasn’t just that he called her Dakota when he touched her.

She wanted him to know her—really know her. The more he told her about his family and past, the goals he claimed to have had before his father died, the more she admired him. The more she wanted to see the man he’d been before the massacre. But even if he never appeared, she knew she still wanted something more with the taciturn man with shadowed eyes and skilled hands.

Something more had never been part of the deal.

So she kissed him and made him come and screamed under his hands and mouth, but didn’t go farther, even when her body was straining and soaked.

The investigation has to end sometime
, she told herself.
He’ll forgive me, then. And I’ll tell him the truth
. But she couldn’t make herself believe it, because motorcycle club vice presidents didn’t date police officers. Even police officers who doubted their career choices more with every news report that discussed unsolved crimes in the city.

On Thursday, she chipped her manicure and spilled a pot of hot tea down the front of her jeans. Writing up her most recent notes for her chief—all of which amounted to “I haven’t found anything out”—had storm clouds forming in her apartment. She was sagging inside, tired of the job. Tired of being a cop. Wondering why she’d signed up for it in the first place.

By the time her shift rolled around, she was sure she’d rather be getting a tooth drilled at the dentist than actually squeezing into her tiny skirt and spending a few hours spinning around the pole at the Ladies Night. Though she’d never anticipated the work, this was the first time in weeks that she’d had a twist in the pit of her stomach as she packed her bag and walked out the door.

It took thirty minutes for the cab to get downtown and her least favorite bouncer, Jerome, was waiting at the front door.

“You’re looking real fine this evening,” he said, and his massive paw reached out to squeeze her ass.

Not in the mood to put up with his bullshit, she dodged his hands and headed into the club without saying a word. Evenings like this made her wish that she could pull out her service pistol and whip it into his face. Just once. A good hard crack that would make him think twice before he tried to grab another woman.

In the dressing room, she stripped off her heavy coat and tennis shoes, then her jeans and t-shirt from an old spring break trip to the Bahamas. The material felt light in her fingers, and she closed her eyes, imagining that the heat of the makeup lamp on her face was the sun, that if she looked there wouldn’t be an empty room full of hastily discarded clothing and dust, but instead the smiling face of Jessica, her best friend from school, as she approached with two margaritas so frosty that Jess would set them down with a thunk and declare that her hands were half frozen.

But daydreaming wasn’t going to change anything. No, the truth was that it was just going to be another night of men grabbing for her while she desperately tried to keep an eye on women who were trying to avoid being watched as they snuck out the back.

At least Tom will probably show up
. One corner of her mouth crept up while she changed her serviceable black bra and panties for a sexier set with bright pink rhinestones that dug into the soft skin of her torso. He’d come in almost every night that she’d worked for the past two weeks—and despite her better judgement, she’d been happy to see him every time. Even knowing the relationship couldn’t last wasn’t enough for her to spray pesticide on the butterflies in her stomach every time he turned that lazy grin on her.

Each shift that he’d come in for, he’d sit right by the stage and watch her dance. More than once, he’d had a word or two with men who reached out to touch her and there was some kind of comfort in knowing that when her back was turned, he still had an eye on it. Maybe they couldn’t be anything in the long run, but Grace promised herself that she wouldn’t regret whatever it was they were able to have, as long as they were able to have it.

Fastening the buttons on the breakaway dress she’d rip off during the first high swell of music in the song she’d selected, Grace looked in the mirror. She still had to use black eyeliner to put some more drama on her face—she’d quickly learned that there was a difference between makeup that looked good on stage and makeup that worked for a normal night out. The midnight wings she drew under and over her eyes went higher and were thicker for work. Powders were darker with more shimmer. The lipstick was so red that it looked like she’d been drinking fresh blood.

With a sigh, she bound her hair into a bun and settled back in the chair. Old habits die hard and she hadn’t been able to stop showing up much earlier than she needed to be. Pulling out her phone, she checked the latest headlines and waited for her turn on the stage. Between dances, she’d have to work the crowd, though she didn’t care about boosting her tips. But it was the best way to keep an eye on the girls and the men, who’d started to blur together. She grouped them automatically as she wound through the thick crowd of people every night.

The frat boys who drank beer and swallowed thickly, hooting at women and mostly keeping their hands to themselves.

The bachelor parties, which came in two flavors: awkward and inappropriate. She had a soft spot for the awkward bachelor parties, the men who’d come in because they thought it was the right thing to do for their friend before he got married. People tend to spend time with similar people, and in those groups she’d always see that the man of honor looked uncomfortable, like he’d rather be spending the evening with his bride to be instead of stuck in the dark dungeon of sin that seemed to be a rite of passage.

The inappropriate parties made her feel bad for whatever woman the man in question was going to marry. They were the ones who got too drunk and grabbed for her ass with fingers made clumsy by too many shots of whiskey. Always the jokes about the groom’s life being over and the old ball and chain, as if he hadn’t asked the woman to marry him.

She hated working for those groups.

The lonely, single men who came in looking for conversation and maybe a quick blowjob in one of the bathrooms. It was illegal, technically, but she wasn’t here to bust johns or the women who made extra money servicing them. So she looked the other way as long as none of the liaisons moved toward the back door. They were easy to work for, anyway, and tended to tip generously if their clothing was decent and poorly if it wasn’t. Either way, Grace couldn’t help but wonder what had led the men to sit alone in a strip club to watch strangers take off their clothes.

Businessmen sometimes came in together, but it was usually during happy hour, which wasn’t the shifts she was scheduled for. Women had been taken at night, so Grace always, always worked the late shift.

It was starting to drain her.

Her life goal hadn’t been to be a police officer—it had been to work with people who needed help and, in Detroit, this seemed like the way to do it. She thought of her gun in her coat and the badge she’d left at home, wondering if all of this was worth it. Since she’d left the warmth and comfort of California, those dreams had fallen by the wayside, leaving a larger, darker pit in her stomach every day that she did nothing but wait.

The room felt cold tonight. The heater was on the fritz again, which wasn’t a problem in the larger room stuffed with bodies and pumping with hot music. Peter was unlikely to fix a problem if it didn’t affect his patrons, so she made a mental note to bring a robe to work the next time she was on shift.

The song changed and she walked to the edge of the stage, where she could look through the door and watch the woman dancing on the main stage. Mandi was an excellent dancer—she could command a room in a way that few woman who worked at the Ladies Night could. Part of it was her delicate, ethereal beauty, like a fairy who’d stumbled into a strip club only to discover that taking off her clothes gave her a boost. The rest was her fantastic control. Mandi always waited until the right moment to remove each piece of clothing, always smiled and simpered at the perfect time to make the crowd’s blood flow faster.

Mandi saw Grace watching and winked before flipping upside down and sliding down the pole. She couldn’t help but grin at her friend’s cheeky expression as she kicked her legs out in the air and whipped her head around, her long blonde hair brushing the floor. The men closest to the stage were slathering at the view and that was before she rotated, leapt off the pole and pulled off the very small top she’d worn until now.

Through the lights that pulsed, Grace saw the door open and recognized the silhouette of the man who stepped inside, nodding to the bartender before sliding onto a stool and taking the drink the man immediately brought to him. Despite her best efforts, the sides of her lips curved up and a warm glow started in her chest and spread through her belly. Tom pulled out his phone and looked down at it, scrolling through whatever information was on the screen while she watched, secreted away in her hidden nook. From where she stood, she couldn’t see the details of his face—the faint shadow of the beard that felt so rough against her skin when his lips made a path down her neck, or the lines around his eyes that crinkled up when he grinned at a joke she made—but she wanted to cross the room and just lean against him. Just be with him.