Page 38 of Striker

“Men in uniform,” he sighs, his eyes lighting up. “Always been my Achilles heel. You boys are sorely underappreciated, but, let me tell you, I am doing my best to make up for that one soldier boy at a time.”

I chuckle, suddenly feeling oddly at ease. "Well, glad I could serve."

We get to talking, and to my surprise, the guy's a riot. He's got stories for days and tells the kind of dirty jokes that make all the other women in the room squirm in their seats. Before I know it, we're laughing, joking, and Danielle is blushing like it’s nobody's business.

This'll show her for trying to ambush me with a haircut.

But what a haircut.

The haircut he gives me is top-notch, and just when I think he's done, he whips out a straight razor, a bowl, and a brush. Quickly, he whips up some shaving lather.

"And now, my dear Mr. Marine, time for the pièce de résistance. Let me put this cream all over your handsome mug and make you into a new man."

"Watch yourself, Horatio," I chuckle.

"Never. You know you love it. I’m going to cream your face and have you begging me for more, Mr. Marine."

Then he puts the razor to work. And the shave... damn, it's like nothing I've ever experienced. For a moment, I forget why I'm here, lost in the unexpected comfort of being pampered by this ridiculous, wonderful man. I'm dimly aware of the other women in the room being taken somewhere else by their pamperers. Someone says something about massages; I don't give a shit, because Horatio is performing a miracle on my face with his razor. Time passes, but nothing else is important except this man and what he’s doing with my face.

Horatio and I are sharing a whiskey when Danielle walks in, her eyes widening at the sight of me. "What in the holy hell is this?"

I'm not broken, not even the least bit bothered by everything that she thought would break me. No, I feel like a new and stylish man. I raise my glass to her.

"You were right, Dani. Not such a bad idea."

"You look... good. Really good." She smiles, but there's a wariness in her eyes that matches the turmoil in mine. We're dancing around each other, caught in a gravitational pull that's becoming impossible to resist. Then she comes close, her voice changing, as if she's realized what she just said to me. In a low tone, she whispers, "But you should still leave. We'll both be better off that way. Leave, or else."

Then she turns and stalks out of the room.

I watch her go, my heart racing, my eyes following her luscious form, lingering longingly on her ass before I catch myself. She's Smokey's sister — off-limits, a line I can't cross. But every moment with her blurs that line, drawing me closer to a point of no return.

I take another sip of whiskey, the liquid fire doing nothing to douse the heat inside me.

One thing is for certain: I'm in dangerous waters, and sinking fast.

Chapter Twelve

Danielle

My breath is stuck in my throat when I slip into the room, my heart racing and my mind spinning with what I know I have to do: confront him. Confront my feelings. It's now or never, because the uncertainty, the unspoken words, the stolen looks, they're tearing at me. And, what's worse, they could get someone hurt. There's no other option: I need to know how Owen really feels.

The door shuts behind me with a quiet click.

How do I make him talk?

How do I make him open up that hidden part of himself and reveal what he's really feeling?

There has to be something. Something big, something powerful, that can push that former Marine and stubborn biker into action.

Glancing around, I spot his bag, and a sudden, reckless idea strikes me.

Maybe the answer to what I need lies inside. I search. It's not like I expect to find a diary, not like the one I kept as a teenager — the same one my brother and Owen occasionally stole — but maybe there is some hint about the person who he truly is that I can use to decipher how he feels.

I reach in and dig through his precisely packed bag. It's much more empty than when we first arrived, as most of Owen's clothes are put away in the dresser, all neatly folded and stacked. It's more accurate to say that what remains in here is less his pack for the weekend and more a 'go bag' in case we need to make a hasty escape.

Or, as my fingers close around something cold, steely, and pull it out to find it's a clip of ammunition, a 'break in case of emergency' bag for when shit hits the fan.

Shivering, I put the bullets back and try to pretend I never saw them.

---