Page 8 of Strike
“It’s surprisingly quick in these kinds of cases. We can’t leave a building in this kind of condition.”
“Do I have to do anything?”
“No. We’ll take care of it all. Have you given your statement to the police?”
“Yes.” What a joyous occasion that had been.
“I would strongly suggest you seek legal representation,” the representative went on. “The police will be in touch, but there are signs of misconduct.”
“Misconduct?” I glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. Great, another problem to add to the pile.
“The back door was painted shut…”
“But I hadn’t started painting that room yet,” I argued. “That’s what I was going to do last night. I didn’t even get to finish the first coat before the kitchen exploded.”
“I’ve noted it in my report,” he assured me. “And the wiring was patched pretty bad. Looks like a DIY job. In my professional opinion, you have grounds to sue, Miss Winslow.”
Sighing, I turned back to the burned-out shell of The Fitzroy Cake Company and scowled. Grounds to sue? I just wanted to bake cakes and create some joy with my tasty creations.
Thinking about the mystery man, my shoulders sank.
“So I just go home?” I asked, wrapping my fingers around the strap of my bag.
“There’s nothing you need to do right now but wait,” he replied. “Everything’s in motion, Miss Winslow. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” He held out his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
Smiling weakly, I shook his hand.
Once he was gone, I threw a glance back at the burned-out shell of my hopes and dreams. At least they were going to be repaired, right? The Fitzroy Cake Company would still open, just a little later than I’d expected.
There was a silver lining on the cloud that had dumped its guts on me last night, but there was something else still hovering up there. Something I couldn’t shake. Something that haunted me every time I closed my eyes.
Chestnut eyes and scruffy boots.
4
Storm
Iwasa point of silence in the chaos of The Underground. I was the eye of the motherfucking storm.
Sitting at the bar, I downed the last of my beer and slammed the empty bottle down with a thud. Behind me, people were shouting and laughing, music was blaring, the bookies to my left were running full tilt taking bets for the night, and a fight had just wrapped up in the cage. It was business as usual, but I didn’t hear any of it.
All I could see were green eyes and flame. Whoever the woman from last night was, I couldn’t shake her image. Maybe it was just the life or death situation that had lodged her in my brain. A moment of high intensity had forged an obsession with a mystery. Fuck, that was some deep shit right there.
“Storm,” a female bartender said. “For a fighter with a name like that, you sure blow in on the quiet side.”
Glancing up, I saw it was Faye. The blonde haired, blue-eyed stunner that every man would kill to fuck. Every man but me, that was.
She swiped up my empty Corona bottle and dumped it into the bin. It crashed against the pile of glass within, and I thought about getting another. I wasn’t fighting tonight, and I could afford the extra calories…as long as the alcohol gave me a buzz.
“You’re always lurking,” Faye said, leaning on the bar. My gaze fell to her breasts, which she was pushing in my direction. “You never talk, and you never mingle. You just fight.”
Since my disastrous return to The Underground over a year ago, I’d made it my mission to keep clear of drama and entanglements…even friendships had been on the back burner. I didn’t talk, I didn’t confide, and I definitely didn’t let go of my heart.
“So?”
“So what happened? You used to be different.”
“None of your business.”
