Page 22 of Striker
“Candy, what in the actual fuck do you think you’re doin’?”
We both look up at the same time to see him standing near our table with something folded over one arm. The expression on his face and the tone of his voice have her jumping out of her chair fast as she attempts to apologize.
“Striker, I’m sorry. I was just—”
“Don’t fuckin’ bother. I know exactly what you were tryin’ to do.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but he definitely makes his displeasure known. “This is my guest. You know better than to run your mouth about a brother, especially when you have no idea what in the everlovin’ fuck you’re even talkin’ about.”
She protests indignantly, “I was just trying to be friendly. Is that some kind of crime?”
“I heard every word you said. Don’t lie to me, okay?”
“Are you really calling me a liar? That’s slander. I can report you to Jasper.”
Striker rolls his eyes. “That’s a big word for a small-time club girl. And, no, you can’t. Club girls take any complaints to Tessa or Queenie, not the Prez. You know that, so I don’t know why you’d even say something like that.”
She makes a growly sound and opens her mouth to argue some more, but Striker shuts her down. “Enough. You’ve wasted more of my time in the last few minutes than you have in the last year. If you want to keep comin’ around this clubhouse, you’ll follow the rules and stop tryin’ to run off every fuckin’ female visitor before they can become an old lady.”
That’s when his eyes dart down to the piece of leather draped over his arm. She freezes for a second and her expression shuts down entirely. “That’s your property cut, right?” When he doesn’t immediately reply, she says tightly, “After all this time, you’re going to give your property cut to a mousy little bookkeeper instead of one of the girls who work their asses off to keep this club going.”
“For starters, it’s none of your business who I give my property cut to. And in the Sons of Rage MC, club girls earn their room and board by doin’ chores around the clubhouse. You don’t get extra bonus points for earnin’ your keep. Nobody’s forcin’ you to stay here and spread your legs. If you don’t like the system Queenie set up, you can take it up with Tessa or simply go from bein’ a club girl to a hangaround any old time.”
She turns on her heel and stalks away, disappearing down a hallway off to the side.
“That was fairly unpleasant. Is she always like that?”
“Yeah, she acts like that with every single new woman who walks through the door. She’s territorial as hell. Listening to her, you’d think she owns the fuckin’ place.”
He drops into his chair and drapes the property cut over the side of the table, so I can read what’s been embroidered on the back. I notice that it’s smaller than his and cut for a woman’s body. It says ‘Property of Striker’ in an elegant script about three inches high. I swear people could probably read it from half a block away.
“Candy asked if you’re giving this to me. Are you?” Lowering my voice, I remind him, “I’m not your old lady, Striker.”
“Yes, I’m givin’ you my property cut. I had this made for you the moment the club voted to put you under our protection.”
“But why?” I stammer, because this doesn’t make any sense to me. “Isn’t it kind of like claiming a woman?”
“Wearing a brother’s property cut usually means you’re his old lady. It’s also a form of protection. It means you’ll be treated with respect wherever you go in this town. Nobody in their right mind will mess with a woman wearing a Sons of Rage brother’s property cut because the retaliation would be severe. It also means you don’t have to worry about any of the other brothers or prospects here hittin’ on you.”
“That all sounds good, I guess. But what will people think?”
His face hardens. “They’ll think you’re my woman. And you are. You’re just mine to protect, rather than mine to love. Does that make sense?”
Across the room, Candy’s standing near a pool table with a pool stick in her hand, staring at us. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. I don’t know how I feel about that.
Striker notices and adds, “Wearing my cut also means the club girls don’t get to play catty games with you anymore. The golden rule here is if they disrespect an old lady, it’s an instant perma-ban.”
“Oh, wow, that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“No, it ain’t harsh at all. It’s the way we protect the wives and old ladies of patched members. That protection also extends to your daughter. When you wear my property cut, it means I accept your daughter as mine. I dare someone to be harsh with her, especially a club girl.”
Striker doesn’t even pretend this has anything to do with romance. To his mind, it’s all about all the different protections his property cut will extend to me and my daughter. And I can’t disagree. We desperately need the protection he’s offering.
“You don’t want it? That’s fine. I ain’t gonna beg you to wear my name on your back.”
I can practically hear the hurt in his tone, so I jump in to rectify my mistake. “No,” I say quickly. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I want to wear it. An outward display of protection by you and your club just might make the difference between life or death if things turn out to be as dire as we suspect. What if it turns out that the person following me was hired to make sure I can’t show up in court to testify? I don’t want to take any chances.”
I reach out and run my fingers along the edge of the leather cut, surprised at how buttery soft it is. I come to my feet and let Striker help me put it on. He holds it up while I slip one arm through the armhole and then the other. I tug down the front and snap it up, feeling the leather gently hug my body. It weighs a little more than I thought it would, but I genuinely like the way it feels on my body.
Striker watches me with an intense look in his eyes. His expression is unreadable, but I sense he’s holding back his emotions. Maybe he’s pissed because he always dreamed of one day giving his property cut to the woman he loves, and he was robbed of that experience by feeling obligated to give it to me for protection. It makes me feel guilty accepting it.
