Page 12 of Striker's Foul
I stop. It’s been a long time since I was called that. After Harold disowned me, I took my mother’s maiden name at her insistence.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I recognize you.”
She holds up her phone. On the screen is an image of Jude and me from around town a couple days ago. Under the photo is my old name, and they’re calling Jude an unnamed child.
I hand her back her phone, trying to keep my hand steady. I head to the kitchen to hide out with Alessa while I pull up the article on my phone.
“What’s up, boss?” she asks as she cuts up the brisket for tonight’s special.
“A whole bunch of bullshit,” I tell her, then read the article out loud.
It states I ran away from home, got pregnant, and went to prison for drug possession. Says my son was raised by my family. I’m so pissed at the blatant lies. There’s nothing about me owning the roadhouse, finishing high school with a newborn, or having a college degree.
“Damn, that sucks. It’s not true.”
“The press doesn’t have to tell the truth. If they did, this country might be a better place.”
I slam my phone down on the counter and decide to help out at the bar. I could use a drink, but I’ll wait until we’re closed and take one from my own personal stash. I never touch the stock.
By the time I get the roadhouse empty and partially cleaned, leaving the rest for the cleaners in the morning, I’m exhausted. I decide not to have that shot after all. Maybe hindsight is telling me I made the right call when I sense movement behind me and hear a scraping sound.
I turn just in time to see a chair coming at me. Moving fast, I slide into my attacker’s body and grab his elbow. Using the training Julian had me take, I slam the base of my palm into hischin. He groans and drops the chair. With both hands free, I box his ears hard, clapping my hands against the sides of his head. He cries out and stumbles back.
I scream, hoping the alarms will pick it up even though I haven’t triggered them yet. The system has a loud noise alarm, but it’s not very sensitive in the busy roadhouse.
The attacker lunges for me, but I twist to the side. I’m about to run for the panic alarm when I hear barking and know Jude is coming with Blaze. Fear for them both pushes me to react instead of flee. I spin around and punch the attacker. He gasps for air, then comes at me again.
“Mom!”
I turn toward my son and miss the hit coming at me. It connects with my cheek, and I scream as pain explodes across my face.
“Astros,” I yell our code word, and the panic alarm engages.
My attacker comes at me again as the alarm blares around us. He isn’t fazed, and that bothers me. Maybe he doesn’t realize the alarm connects not only to the police but also to Julian’s security company.
“You should’ve never come home, whore,” he growls as he reaches for my throat.
This time, I ignore Jude screaming. I raise my arms between us and bring them down hard on his elbows. When they fall away, I slam my palms against his ears again, then jab at his nose. He cries out with each strike and turns to flee, but he’s slow. Blaze leaps forward and attacks.
The guy tries to kick him, but Jude jumps in.
Jude blocks a punch aimed at his head and counters with an upper elbow to the attacker’s chin. Then my son pulls the ultimate move. He steps back and delivers a well-placed kick to the groin that would have been a goal in soccer. The guy crumples and passes out. Jude rushes to me.
“Get something to secure him before you check on me,” I say.
Jude runs behind the bar and returns with duct tape.
Striker
My phone goes off, and I roll over to grab it. “What the fuck do you want?” I mutter, knowing it’s Commander from the ringtone.
“The panic alarm just went off at the roadhouse.” That’s all he says before the call cuts off.
I shoot upright and dial Gambit.
“My family is under attack,” I tell him when he answers.
