Page 8 of Strider's Misstep

Had I been scared? Of course, I had. I’d no idea what I was getting myself into. I’d had to steady my nerves with Dutch courage before I was brave enough to put a swing in my step and walk into the room full of leather-clad men. I’d worn a tight cropped tee that showed off my tits and a short tight skirt which would leave nothing to the imagination if I bent over. High heels made the most of my shapely calves and long legs. My hair gleamed and fell in tight curls around my shoulders. My eyes were smouldering due to the makeup I’d applied, and I had full, red-painted lips.

I nearly changed my mind and ran when it seemed like everyone had turned to look at me, but before I had a chance, something caught my eye. Or rather, someone.

A man standing in the middle of a group in front of a bar, charismatic, tall, and so damn muscular, his arms seemed like they were bursting from his cut. His hair, tumbling down, framed spectacular chiselled features. My body hadn’t been aroused by sex for three long years, yet as his dark eyes seemed to blaze into mine, butterflies swirled in my stomach, and, embarrassingly in this short skirt, my panties felt decidedly wet.

As he approached, he raised an eyebrow, and his mouth was curved into a slight smirk. He didn’t make any introduction or small talk. He just grabbed hold of my hand and, with gentle persuasion, tugged me in the way he wanted to go, which was straight through the rowdy clubroom, out the back to the room where he stayed.

It was there that I realised he wore the patch that denoted he was thePresident. And there that he brought my body back to life. Even now, just thinking about it, my thighs clench togetherin an effort to ease the ache. His body was proportionate and well-endowed, and he knew how to use what the deities had given him. It wasn’t a quick fuck, well, it was at first, I suppose, and then he took his time. He worshipped my body as if he were an attentive lover rather than a biker using a whore.

When we’d finished, I thought he was going to kick me out of bed, but instead, his arm curled around me, pulling me into his side.

His words, gruffly spoken, informed me, “This is all I’m offering. There ain’t gonna be no happy ending, no old lady patch or title. You’re a club girl, club property, but while we’ve got this spark between us, you’ll be exclusively mine.” He’d chuckled softly. “Don’t want the brothers dipping into your honey pot.”

I remember sleeping more peacefully that night than I’d done for a very long time. Strider, as I came to know him, wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in my life. I knew it was only a matter of time. Maybe just a few days, weeks, or months if I was lucky, but I needed this breathing space.

And, well, wow. That man was just fine.

But the end date never appeared on the horizon, and I settled into my new life. The teasing of the brothers about him not sharing his toys soon faded, and they accepted my odd position in the club. I was his, but I wasn’t. And discombobulated from all the rapid changes I’d been through—my forced marriage, the abuse my husband had put me through, then witnessing the death of my father had left my mind in a whirl. This strange situation with no pressures or expectations was exactly what I needed.

Strider was a generous lover, making sex fun, and quite happy to snuggle and relax afterward. Until he wasn’t.

Now, he rarely comes for me anymore. I don’t just miss the physical gratification but feel I’ve lost a friend.

It wasn’t like a switch being thrown. After I ended the pregnancy, for a month or so, things seemed to go back to normal, but in hindsight, I was only kidding myself. At first, I thought Strider was holding back as he didn’t want to hurt me, but then I realised he was backing away emotionally as well as physically. When days became weeks and weeks turned into months, I knew he was finished with me, though no words to that ilk had been exchanged.

It was then that I wondered whether I was going to have to throw my hat into the pool of club whores.

It wasn’t anything different from my original expectations two years back, I reminded myself. And my need for a secure base with men who’d protect me hadn’t changed. Mentally, though, I’d not only enjoyed being just one man’s plaything, and stupid of me, while I hadn’t realised I was doing it, I’d fallen in love.

Going with someone else would feel like betrayal.

But it had never happened. No one asked me to put out, even though they could all see Strider no longer wanted anything to do with me. It was as if I was still somehow branded as his.

Then, as now, I feel like a fraud, here under false pretences. I make myself useful—cleaning around the club, cooking, and stepping into catfights between the other girls. But even I’m not fooling myself. It’s nothing worth what they’re giving to me—security and protection, a place to hide. I’ve no idea how long it’s going to last.

For the present, I’ll make the most of it. And, while it’s probably stupid, I’m pinning all my hopes on being able to write books.

Having sent my first draft to Sheri, I can’t relax. My fingernails are bitten down to the quick. Despite building up my expectation to be disappointed, I can’t help but hope she finds at least some merit in it. Something I can build on, perhaps.

It’s less than twenty-four hours after I sent her the email, when my phone trills again, and it’s her calling me back.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “Is it that bad? You couldn’t finish it?”

“Couldn’t finish it?” She snorts down the line. “Hell, girl, I finished it. I’ve never read a book so fast. Ask Jake. I stayed up all night as I couldn’t put it down. It’s freaking fantastic.”

I shake my head as if to clear my ears. “Wh-what?”

“It’s amazing. Best book I’ve read in ages. I want more.”

It’s taking me a few seconds to process her words.Is she just being kind?“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” She chuckles down the line. “The story is amazing. The plot draws you in, and everything’s so realistic to this life.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I didn’t even dare dream of a reaction like that. “You didn’t find anything wrong?”

“Well, sure, there were a lot of typos and a few words I think you got wrong. But that’s nothing a good editor can’t fix.”

Where the hell do I find an editor?I don’t ask that question aloud as another is more important. “How could I afford someone like that, Sheri? Those professionals would cost thousands.”

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