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Josie is begging to go blow bubbles but I’m not sure about turning her loose on her own. I glance up at Striker.
He smiles indulgently and tells me, “She’ll be fine here on the porch with Queenie and Tessa. Rock is the founder of our club and Queenie is his old lady. Tessa is our club president’s old lady. They both love doin’ fun stuff with the kids while we’re in church. They’re totally trustworthy.”
Queenie, the older woman, laughs. “Don’t let him lie about me. If you give us half a minute, we’ll have your little one spoiled rotten.”
I can’t help but smile back, because she’s so warm and friendly. I love how the kids flock around her, looking happy and carefree. Tessa is wearing a black T-shirt with the Sons of Rage logo, but Queenie is wearing a pink one with a crown and her name printed in rhinestones underneath.
Although I believe him, I still plan to grab a window seat so I can keep an eye out for Josie myself.
Striker guides me into the clubhouse with his hand at the small of my back. It feels proprietary but maybe I’m just overthinking it. He must be reading my mind because he picks a window seat right on the other side of the kids, which means I can see everything. I’m situating my purse when he walks over to the bar and brings back drinks for Josie and me. He brings me a Sprite and her a bottle of apple juice and some nibbles.
Before he’s finished putting everything on the table, someone opens a door in the back and yells, “Church is starting right goddamn now, so get your sorry asses into the chapel.”
I’m shocked for a second until several brothers chuckle and they all begin moving towards that door. “Like we already discussed, I’ll be at church for about thirty minutes today. There’s only one item on the agenda.” His hand brushes against my shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Are you gonna be okay on your own?”
“Of course. Go do what you need to do. Josie and I will be right here waiting on you.”
That answer puts a smile on his handsome face. It also reminds me just how rare a genuine smile is from Striker.
He strolls across the large bar area and disappears through the door at the far back of the room. Then I’m alone at a table, sipping on my drink and watching my daughter having the time of her life chasing bubbles with the other kids. I grab one of the nibbles and realize it’s a mixture of small pretzels, nuts, and chips. I’m pretty relaxed for about thirty minutes and anticipating Striker and the other brothers pouring out of the back any moment now when I hear a feminine voice come from behind me.
“You’re new.” One of the club girls I recognize from my last visit drops down into the chair across from me. I look at her for a long, hard minute, trying to remember her name. It’s right on the tip of my tongue. She’s got beautiful, long, silky brown hair and her makeup is perfect. She’s wearing a denim skirt and jacket with a tube top and cowboy boots. Her western theme is kind of cute. It’s her facial expression that clues me into the fact that she’s probably not here for a friendly chat. Her eyes are narrowed on me, and her lips are pressed into a thin line.
Suddenly, her name pops into my mind. “You’re Candy, right?” I remember Striker mentioning that she gets really upset if someone calls her Candy Cane because that’s only allowed at Christmas. I try not to smile while remembering his face when he explained it to me.
“You remembered me, I see.” She looks ever so pleased about that. “It’s because I’ve got the kind of smile that leaves an impression on people.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” I agree gamely.
“Let’s see, you’re Beth, the mousy little bookkeeper, right?”
“Actually, I’m a certified public accountant. But they’re both jobs dealing with numbers, so I can see how you got confused.”
Her eyes cut towards the window. I glance out as well, just in time to see Josie blow me a kiss. Candy says, “Cute kid. I didn’t know Striker was playin’ family man these days.”
“He’s not,” I clarify. “He’s providing security.”
“Sure he is,” she shoots back quickly. “What’s your game?”
This club girl is unreal. I don’t know how you walk up to a complete stranger and start having weird off-the-wall conversations like this.
“There’s no game. I’m paying him to provide security services for me and my daughter.”
“Striker doesn’t do personal security. He’s not a security guard. He’s an IT specialist who only takes on businesses. So, let’s stop lying, okay?”
I’m already tired of whatever this is, so I tell her, “There are dozens of empty tables. I think it’s about time for you to pick one and get a move on. You didn’t ask to sit with me, and I sure didn’t invite you.”
“Look, no offense, but outsiders never really get club culture. They always underestimate what a brother needs, and what it takes to hold on to a man like that. Trust me, it’s not for everybody.”
“What is this about? Do you have a crush on Conrad or something?” I use his real name to wind her up. By the look on her face, it’s working.
“His name is Striker. This is exactly what I mean. How are you gonna sit in a clubhouse and call a brother by anything other than his club name?”
“I notice you didn’t answer the question.”
She snorts a laugh. “Of course I’m not crushing on Striker of all people. Everybody around here knows Striker doesn’t mess around with women. Not since some bitch from the outside broke his heart a few years back. He swore off women full stop. If you’ve got some fantasy about being his old lady, you might want to give it up now and save yourself the trouble of getting attached to a brother that can never love you back.”
Before I can respond, Striker’s voice belts out her name irritably.
