Page 13 of Strider's Misstep

“Take me back to the club,” I spit out.

“No.” He doesn’t even spare me a glance as he refuses.

Incensed, I let my voice rise. “Not up for negotiation. You’ve made your point. I don’t need a screaming match with yourwifeto confirm that you’re off the market.”

Now he turns to face me, his eyes wide. “That’s not?—”

I slam my fist into my palm, half wishing I was hitting the face of the obstinate man. “Strider! We had fun. Sure, I might have had some feelings for you, but you’ve made your point. Take me back.”

“Just get out of the fuckin’ car,” he growls.

I’m going to get out of the car, alright. I’m going to be calling myself an Uber and heading back to the club. He’s playing some game, and I want no part of it. Pushing hard, the door flies open and I all but stumble out.

But my escape plan is quickly foiled as he’s moved fast. He catches me before I’ve even rounded the back of the car, takes me by the arm, and turns me around. While not a painful hold, it’s enough that I can’t get loose.

“For fuck’s sake, Strider…”

He stops, looks down at me, and there’s a softening in his eyes. “Please, Jasmine. In a moment, you’ll understand.”

It’s hard to refrain from stomping my foot. “What if I want to remain ignorant?”

“Do you?” His eyes rise in challenge. “Not like you, Jasmine, to turn away from having all the information.”

I might not have ever expected this career path, but I’ve become an author. I spend my life weaving plots, trying to understand motivation and emotions. Suddenly, I realise that no matter how uncomfortable I am, if I walk away now, I’ll always wonder why Strider thought it so important I meet his wife. Though right now, I can’t fathom any reason for it.

Unless…Has he an open marriage and his wife won’t mind? Or,God help me, no.I narrow my eyes. “I’m not into threesomes.”

His eyes widen so far, it’s comical. His mouth drops open, then he recovers himself. There’s even a quirk to his mouth. “Just get inside, Jas.” After a pause he adds, “Please.”

Something about his tone, or maybe his countenance, stops my protest. For some goddamn reason, deep inside, I still love the man even though I know he doesn’t—and shouldn’t due to his marital status—feel the same for me. Even though thinking I’m an idiot to put myself through this torture, I find myself beside him as he puts the key in the lock, turns it, and opens the door.

“That you, Colt?” a feminine voice calls out. She uses what I assume, but hadn’t known, was his government name, which emphasises the vast gap between her and me.

He barks a laugh. “Who else would it fucking be?”

That’s his wife,I remind myself and start panicking.How bad will this be?

The door closes behind me with a decisive click. I’ve no option now but to follow his lead. With his hand on my back, he encourages me forward into the room where the voice came from.

I come to an abrupt halt at the sight in front of me.

There’s a woman in a wheelchair, held in by straps, as if her body is incapable of supporting itself. Apart from her chest gently rising and falling, there’s no other movement, norecognition that anyone has entered the room. Beside her stands another woman clothed in a nurse’s uniform. It’s her that’s giving Strider a welcoming smile.

“How is she today?” the man beside me asks.

“As comfortable as I can make her,” the nurse replies. “Are you going to visit with her awhile?”

Strider gives an abrupt nod. The nurse gets up. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

I’m still trying to get my head around the dynamics in the room. Casting a quizzical glance toward Strider, he takes no time to enlighten me.

“Let me introduce you.” He points to the comatose-looking woman in the wheelchair. “This is my wife. Anna.”

I’m filled with horror. All my imaginations hadn’t led me to this. I swallow, think whether I should temper my words, then blurt out anyway, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Best diagnosis?” He looks at Anna studiously, then turns back to me. “Pick’s Disease.”

Taking a step toward the person he claimed as his wife, he places his hand on her forehead, smoothing the lines away gently. He stares at her for a moment, his face softening, then hardening as he turns back to me. “Come, let’s sit.” He beckons to a three-person sofa.

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