Page 12 of Strider's Misstep

What?If he’s going to take me somewhere to kill me and dispose of my body, why should I make it less difficult? I shake my head.

Reaching out his hand, he touches my shoulder, frowning as I visibly flinch. “What the fuck, Jas?” His eyes narrow more. “Where the hell do you think I’m taking you?”

Again, moving my head from side to side, I keep quiet. It seems stupid to voice my fears. I’ve never been afraid of Strider since the day that we met. In awe, yes, and respectful of his rank. But I’ve never been scared of him hurting me. Not until now, when he’s acting so out of character.

“Talk to me, Jas.”

Swallowing hard and licking my lips, I at last find some words. “You haven’t wanted to be near me for weeks, months, Strider. Now, suddenly, out of the blue, you’ve something to show me?”

“I’m fuckin’ this up,” he says under his breath, causing me to strain to hear. His hand, still on my shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze. “I read your last book.”

I catch a breath as my eyes open wide. Never in all the time I’ve known Strider have I ever seen him with anything other than a parts magazine or a bike manual. He’s never once opened a book in my presence.

I don’t need to say anything. He can see the doubt written on my face.

“Buzz said I should.” He gives a half-hearted shrug.

“You read it all?” I query, my stomach dropping, hoping he might just have flicked through a couple of pages. I wonder whether there’s any chance I could convince him it’s all made up.

He disavows me of that. “I read enough.” His Adam’s apple moves in his throat. “Fuck, Jas. I didn’t realise the feelings you had for me.” His eyes search mine, and I try and turn away, but with his free hand, he grabs my chin and moves me to face him again. “Am I wrong? In your book, the club girl fell for the prez.”

She had. Just like I had done. I’d set out the outcome I wished there could have been.

He can see it written on my face as he adds in a sad, gruff tone, “You were writing about me and you, weren’t you?”

I let my lids shutter my eyes, not wanting him to be able to read my thoughts. It would be easier to tell him that his assumptions are incorrect and that I wasn’t writing about any particular person. But I can’t tell a lie. As the story came into my head, it was impossible to stop the words from flowing. The characters did what they wanted to do, and I knew it was my inner dreams talking. While I never told him I love him, it doesn’t make it any less true.

When he pulls me to him, I allow myself to relax into his arms. It’s been a while since he’s held me, and selfishly, I breathe in the scent of that sandalwood shower gel he always uses mingled with leather and oil. It’s so familiar, for a moment, I don’t care what he does to me, as long as he keeps holding me.

“Jas,” he murmurs softly into my ear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought we could just fuck, no emotions involved. But it didn’t turn out like that. I didn’t want anyone else to touch you, but…” he pauses, swallows, then adds, “I couldn’t make you mine.” He pulls back slowly, almost reluctantly, and while I losethe warmth of his body, his hands cradle my face. “I shouldn’t have gotten close to you, and I should have explained. Now, I want to show you why I have nothing to offer you.” Leaning forward, he rests his lips against mine for a moment. “Can’t blame you for not trusting me, but please, please, Jas. Come with me now.”

What else can I say? Knowing he’s never knowingly hurt me and trusting he won’t start now, I reply with just one word, “Yes.” Maybe if I understand the reasons for his actions, it will make his rejection ache less.

This time, when he opens the door, I get in. He reaches over me to pull the seat belt across and tightens it. Then he moves around to the driver’s side.

He pulls out of the compound, not offering the exact location we’re going, and I’m too nervous to ask. I rack my brains but can’t come up with any explanation or suggestion of what he might want to show me. And as we drive, I can’t bring myself to ask.

It’s not a great distance until we’re going through a nicely kept residential area, two-storey houses to either side with nice gardens and distance between them. If I’m honest, the type of place I’ve dreamed of living in. Not as ostentatious as where I grew up, but somewhere with a cosy, homely vibe. He pulls into a driveway and puts the car in park.

I eye the building in front of me—nicely maintained, and a decent front yard. When he makes no move to get out of the car, I ask, “Where are we?”

“At my house.” He sounds curt.

I already knew he had a place away from the club. He’s got a room there but rarely uses it to sleep, especially nowadays when I’m no longer warming his bed. “Okay,” I respond slowly. “But why am I here?”

A quick glance toward him shows me his jaw is clenched. A moment passes, then two, before he explains, “I’ve brought you to meet my wife.”

His wife? Now hold on one hot damn moment.Turning away from him, I focus my eyes on the front of the house. The fact he’s married doesn’t surprise me. Many bikers live a double life. That no one in the club ever mentioned he had a serious other half doesn’t confound me either. The bro code trumps all. I just, never for one second, had even considered Strider had a permanent woman in his life.

I’ve been so fucking stupid. Those tender touches, the hours spent just talking. Those many times he kept me in his bed, wanting me to stay the night, had me thinking I was something special to him when, all it turns out I am, was the woman on the side. I, of all people, knowing how cruel men could be, would never have knowingly put myself in this position.

My fingers curl into my palms as I think through the implications. I was never anything more than a pleasant distraction on those nights he did stay at the club. It’s no wonder he didn’t want a baby with me. I’m angry at him, but more so at myself. Surely, I should have been able to recognise the signs? But Strider never smelled of perfume. There was no clue to destroy the fantasy I’d built up in my mind that he was mine.

When coming to the club, I had no good expectations about the men I would find, my sole purpose being to place myself under their protection. So why should I be shocked now when I find the president, himself, is a philandering bastard? I shouldn’t be surprised.

What I can’t understand is why he’s brought me here now? Is it to punish me for clearly developing thoughts I should never have about him?Does she know about me,or is he going to flaunt me in her face? Did my story about the successful loveaffair between the president and the club girl make him think he needed to leave me in no doubt that he’s already taken?

He’s so wrong if he thinks I’ll try to sink my claws into him. He’s not been near me in months, and if that wasn’t a damn red flag that he’s not interested, I don’t know what it would take. I certainly don’t need any further introduction into his domestic life to steer clear of him. Hasn’t he already hurt me enough?

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