Page 23 of Striker

Herhurtdraws me closer to the door with an urge to call out, to reveal my eavesdropping presence, and then profusely apologize for being such an unmitigated asshole. Then I catch myself. If I go in now, apologizing, Owen will know he's won this round. As hard as it is, I can't go in there. I can't apologize. Because this is war.

"I called for housekeeping, yes, ma'am, but not to make you clean this up. I just wanted access to your cleaning tools."

"My tools? You mean my mop and broom?"

"And your rags, your mop buckets, any cleaning sprays you might have, and definitely a vacuum if you've got one."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm going to clean this all up myself. You shouldn't have to suffer for an argument between me and my girlfriend."

Even now, hearing that word —girlfriend —makes every hair on the back of my neck stand upright in delight. It's wrong, I know, it's absolutely not what I need right now, but every time he says it, it’s like someone flips a switch inside me. If only it were coming under better circumstances, instead of him apologizing and making up for my immaturity to an obviously overworked and under-appreciated housekeeper.

"You're going to clean it up?"

"Done it before. Heck, I once cleaned an entire latrine using my best friend's toothbrush. Didn't tell him about it until afterwards, either." There's a pause as Owen lets out a small chuckle. "He was none too happy. But that's beside the point, ma'am. I just need your tools, not your presence. If you're good with knots, there's some booby-trapped champagne over by the bed. It's warm, probably flat, but so expensive it should still be good. You can have it. And they're running that cop drama on TV right now, so if you want to kick back, put your feet up, and watch an episode while I handle my girlfriend's mess, you're welcome to do so. I'm sure they work you pretty hard around here and you could use a break."

"You have no idea," the housekeeper replies.

"Then relax a minute. I got this."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm always sure. Just don't move any of my girlfriend's things, if you can help it. She left specific instructions that her clothes were not to be moved."

"Even the panties on the chandelier?"

"Especially the panties on the chandelier."

"Why are they there?"

Owen grunts. Inside, I can hear the sounds of a mop bucket being filled and then the wet sploosh of a mop being deployed on a very dirty floor. "Something she saw online on that video app that sounds like a clock. It was about elevating your ass, literally and metaphorically, by placing your underwear in high places. It's supposed to raise your self-esteem and self-confidence. At least, according to the eighteen-year-old DJ and part-timeAbercrombiemodel who made the video. Supposedly, they're a certified life coach, too, so it seems legit."

"What the hell is the world coming to?" The housekeeper says.

"No fucking clue." There's the sound of the mop being wrung out and redeployed. "Some days, it makes me long to reenlist. It was hell, but at least it was a hell that made sense, you know?"

Then conversation winds on and on while I listen, feeling guilty, feeling like an asshole, feeling like maybe I misjudged Owen. Maybe he deserves better.

Then I remember Morgan. Her tears. And the sight of Riley as her shaky hands took those pills, and she embraced the man who is guiding her down a path of self-destruction.

I can't afford to lose focus.

No matter how bad it feels, the outcome will be worse for everyone I love if I do not remember what's important.

That means no compassion for Owen.

He's an obstacle. That's it. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how charming it is that the rugged ex-Marine and current biker is mopping floors and kindly chatting with an old housekeeper while he helps her take a rare break and encourages her to put her feet up and enjoy some champagne.

It makes me want to do what I've ached to do all these years: run in there and kiss him for being a rare mix of compassion, handsomeness, and just the right amount of dangerous that I'd feel safe in his arms and pity for anyone who looked at me the wrong way.

When it sounds like the cleaning is done, I loudly open and shut the door, letting myself in the room just in time to see Owen helping the housekeeper organize her supplies on her cleaning cart and then give her a generous tip.

"Thanks for all your help, ma'am," he says.

The older woman gives him a warm smile and me a frigid glare as she pushes the cart out of the room.

"You're back," he says.

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