Page 3 of Striker

There’s got to be some way out of this.

The idea of being trapped at some wedding party for who knows how long, with my best friend’s little sister, has me wishing I had a time machine, just so I could go back and undo the fact that Smokey saved my life.

“You know there’s no chance she’ll say yes if I ask her,” I say.

“She will. You remember that list of names we found in her diary when we were nineteen, twenty, and on a temporary leave?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Remember how your name was written on that list?”

Of course I fucking remember. Thinking about it even now makes me feel so damn hot. It’s like I’m back in the desert all over again.

“Not really,” I answer. “Wasn’t paying much attention.”

“The hearts? The underlining? The way she wrote ‘Mrs.’ and her full name next to yours? Come on, Striker, there’s no way you don’t fucking remember.”

Rook guffaws. “Hearts? Would you like me to change your road patch, Striker? I could put some hearts and unicorns on it for you.”

He could, I have no doubt about it.

It’d probably look great, too.

Because Rook, as much as he denies it, and doesn’t even look like it — because he’s a giant grumbling asshole with a shriveled black heart that only beats for Eliza — is a talented artist; the motorcycle-riding troll designed the MC’s logo and did a damn fine job of it, too.

“Shut up, Rook. And maybe I do remember how she wrote it,” I say. “It sort of rings a bell.”

Smokey nods and grins.

“Good. I’m going to give you her office address. Your mission to pay me back for saving your life is to go there and make sure she agrees to take you along as a bodyguard to this wedding. All you have to do is keep everyone there from putting a hand on my little sister. Your hands included,” he says with a laugh and a clap on my shoulder. “Simple enough, right?”

I have no option. No out. I owe Smokey my life; that loyalty binds me until the day I die.

Which I hope is soon.

In fact, if it happened while I’m on the way to Danielle’s, that’d be perfect.

“Sounds simple enough.”

It may sound simple, but there’s just one giant problem: for as long as Danielle’s wanted me, I’ve wanted her, too. And while I’m keeping others from putting their hands on her, who’s going to keep me from touching the woman who’s haunted my dreams from the moment we met?

Chapter Two

Danielle

This is where I belong.

This is the place where it always feels like home.

The place where, despite everything else going on in my life — the frustrations, the missed opportunities, the people ignoring me I want to pay attention to me, the people paying attention to me I want to ignore me — despite all of it, this is where I am the person who I want to be, the woman who dazzles, commands attention, and conquers the people in her way.

Out on this collection of dirt, chalk, and bags that make up the baseball diamond, I’m in control. When I’m on the pitcher’s mound, all eyes are on me in exactly the way I want them to.

When I’m on the pitcher’s mound, I’m me.

But I’m not on the pitcher’s mound right now.

“Again,” I call out to my best friend, Morgan, as I choke up on the bat and relax into my stance. Instead, I’m testing myself. Pushing myself.

---