Page 13 of Strike
“Now she’s looking for him,” the girl to my right said. “He never left a name and disappeared right after.”
“It isn’t you, is it Storm?” the girl opposite asked, narrowing her eyes.
“C’mon girls,” I drawled. “You know me. I’m a complete fuckhead. Of course, it isn’t. Can I see that?” I nodded at the cocky girl’s phone.
“You’re right. You are a fuckhead. You jumped out of my friend Rhiannon’s car at the Alexandria Parade traffic lights the other night rather than let her suck your cock.” Rolling her eyes, she handed me her phone so I could see the post.
I shrugged and took the phone. “It happens.”
“It was a total dick move,” the girl to my right said.
“Girls like your friend Rhiannon always think they’re the exception to the rule,” I said, glancing at the screen.Callie Winslow.Her name was Callie Winslow. “They always think they can turn the asshole good, and all it takes to mend a broken past is a few decent orgasms. Ain’t going to happen.” I handed the scowling girl back her phone. “Nice doing business with you.”
Retreating, I left the women to their death stares and swung by the bar. I’d need a beer for this.
“Quite the beating you took tonight,” Faye said, handing me a Corona. “You on your period or something?”
Narrowing my eyes, I saw she was still pissed I’d turned her down. She would just have to deal. Besides, there were plenty of other cocks lining up for her to ride, and she didn’t even have to buy a ticket.
“Nice to see you too, Faye.” I snatched the beer and flung a ten-dollar note at her. “Keep the change.”
“You know, there’s a reason why everyone hates your guts, Storm,” she called out after me. “You’re not helping yourself!”
Ignoring her, I weaved through the throng of people and found a quiet corner. Sitting on a couch in a darkened alcove—a couch that had probably seen its fair share of disinfectant—I sipped at my beer and contemplated looking up the beautiful Callie Winslow and seeing what she had to say about me. Her story seemed to have gone viral if those bitches were talking about it, so it was a good thing she didn’t know my true identity. If she did, it would be another kind of headline.
Taking out my phone, I nursed my beer between my knees and downloaded the Facebook app. I couldn’t believe I was doing this shit. Ever since my stupid ass was smeared all over the news and the Internet, I’d steered clear. I’d deleted every profile I’d had online and had never dared go back. People could be vicious as fuck when they weren’t held accountable.
I had to create a profile to continue, so I made one and set my name as Storm R, leaving the picture and other details blank.
Tapping the search bar, I typed in her name. Callie Winslow.
I knew I was tempting fate and fueling a strange attraction I didn’t know anything about, but I did it anyway. She was going to be disappointed, and I was still going to be a miserable bastard.
The results loaded up, and there she was. Pale blonde hair, green eyes, and a smile to kill for. Tapping on the photo, it enlarged, and I salivated…and it had nothing to do with the giant wedding cake behind her.
She had curves but was still delicate, and she had a happy almost carefree way about her. I could see the pride in her eyes and the uninhibited joy her chosen profession had afforded her. She looked like an angel. A completely fuckable angel.
Exiting out of the photo, I read the post that had caused such a ruckus, and my hands started to shake. They actually fucking shook.Pussy.
She was a baker. A pastry chef. Was that what they called it? It was her shop that burned down, the dream she’d worked all her life to achieve, and now it was a pile of ash. The Fitzroy Cake Company. She’d almost gone down with it until I’d shown up.
You saved my life…and haunted me instead. Please. Who are you?
Turning over my phone, I grabbed my beer and downed a mouthful. Casting my gaze out over The Underground, I didn’t know what to think. About any of it.
I could still smell the stench of smoke lodged in my sinuses, and the feel of her in my arms was as vivid as the kick on the ribs I’d copped in the cage the hour before. She’d only spoken about a dozen words to me, but I remembered every single one.
Picking up my phone, I opened her profile and began scrolling, and a more complete picture of Callie Winslow began to take shape. There were a lot of photos of her cakes and pastries and a lot of selfies, but there was no guy. Was she alone?
You haunted me instead…
My finger hovered over the message icon. She would be disappointed when she found out the truth about me. She would believe the lie—that I was a perpetrator of domestic violence—and she wouldn’t feel the same way about that night. She would look at me like everyone else did. Those pretty green eyes would be filled with hate.
If there was one thing I was good at, it was giving women closure. First, the con artist ring girl, then Lori, and now Callie. She could say what she needed to say, and then move on with her life.
So I opened a message, typed in some words, and pressed send.
Storm R:I hear you’re looking for me.
