Page 9 of Strike
“No girl?” she asked, ignoring me.
“Nope.” My thoughts settled on the woman from the fire. Ash-blonde hair. It was like some kind of fucked-up metaphor.
“Then what are you doing later?” Faye fluttered her eyelashes and pouted her lips. “Need some cheering up?”
I stared at her, not surprised at her blatant demand for sex. She was the kind of woman who reveled in her sexuality and didn’t mind flaunting it, but it didn’t mean she was easy. She was the one who did the choosing, not the other way around, and it looked like she wanted to take me out for a ride.
I rolled my eyes. “I know you like trawling for dick, Faye, but everyone knows you’ve got an arrangement with Blade.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“Corona,” I said, glaring at her.
Pouting, she straightened up and flicked her hair behind her shoulder. “Coming right up.”
Running my fingers along the edges of the mat on top of the bar, I stared at the television mounted on the wall opposite. Usually, it played a variety of pay TV sports, like live football, UFC bouts, rugby, or car racing, but tonight, someone had left it on the news. I watched absently, my gaze flicking over the closed captions.
I was really beginning to question the point of everything. Life, love, wealth, meaning, giving a fuck. Diving headfirst into that fire had shifted something inside of me, and the life I’d withdrawn into wasn’t serving its purpose anymore. That much was clear. I was fucking miserable.
The blaze erupted in the Brunswick Street storeat around ten p.m.last night. Flames engulfed the fledgling business in minutes.
I straightened up, staring at the screen as Faye returned with my beer. Thumping it down on top of the bar, she peered at me.
“What’s up your ass?” she asked, glaring at me.
Not giving a stuff about her bruised ego, I said, “Shut the fuck up. I’m watching that.”
She glanced at the television, then back to me, but I didn’t pay any attention. I was too busy waiting for a glimpse of the mystery woman with ashes in her hair. Not to mention waiting for the part referencing the Good Samaritan who risked his life.
The case of the blaze was determined to be a fault with the electrical wiring. The matter is now under police investigation.
Police investigation? I frowned.
The story ended, and another began. There had been no mention of the woman or me. It was probably a good thing considering my need for obscurity, but I couldn’t help the pang of disappointment at not seeing her again. I was seriously whacked.
“A shop fire?” Faye looked me over. “Know something about that?”
“No,” I snapped, pushing to my feet. Slapping a ten-dollar bill onto the bar, I grabbed my beer and walked away.
Pushing through the crowd, I took a sip of alcohol and tried to think of something other than my stupidly heroic actions. Last night seemed a long time ago already. No one had died—otherwise, they would’ve said in the report—but police action?
It may have been my past interactions with con artists posing as beautiful women, but my first thought was an insurance scam. I would like to give people the benefit of the doubt considering I didn’t know the woman from shit, but I’d been burned in the most complete and horrific way. Even if she was legit, it was better this way.
A shoulder smashed into me, and I lost my grip on my bottle of beer. It fell to the concrete, smashing into a million pieces. Alcohol splashed over my jeans and boots, and I allowed the surge of anger I’d been holding onto to burst forth.
“Hey!” I shouted, turning to give the asshole a piece of my mind.
“Watch where you’re walkin’,Storm.”
Great, just my fucking luck. Staring directly into the angry face of Hamish ‘Goblin’ McBride, Irish asshole of the century, I sneered.
The guy hated my guts, and I hated his, but at least it was for a legitimate reason and had nothing to do with the length of our dicks. He was with Lori now. Lori being the woman I cheated on back when I was a steaming pile of shit. Lori, the woman I could’ve found eternal happiness with but had been too arrogant to slow the fuck down and appreciate what I had.
Now she’d found all that and more with Hamish. She might’ve forgiven me to some extent—after finally agreeing to hear my side of the story—but Goblin never would. I was enemy number one in his eyes and always would be.
“Watch where you leave your fat ass, ginger,” I retorted.
“Still a complete dick, I see,” was his reply. “Still fallin’ victim to con artists, limp dick?”
