STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC) (3 page)

CHAPTER 6

T
he next day, Grace went down to the police station to check in with her boss. Chief Anderson was a worn man with dark hair that faded to gray at the temples and when she spotted him, he was arguing with one of the detectives. She leaned against the cool, slick wall outside his office and waited for him to be free.

“Take care of it,” he snapped at the detective. “Don’t bring this to me again until the matter is resolved.”

“But…”

“Or maybe you’d like a week off to think about it.”

She didn’t hear the muttered response clearly, but a second later the detective walked out of the office, slammed the door and walked down the long hallway back toward the bullpen. Of course someone would get Anderson worked up before she had to give a report that boiled down to no progress. She took a deep breath of the air that was coffee with a hint of urine, winced and then walked into the office.

“Hello Chief Anderson.” She stood at parade rest and wished for the security of her uniform. But it wouldn’t do any good to have her walking around the city looking like the cop she was.

“Sit down, Grace,” he said, heaving his bulk into the worn leather chair. She nodded and sank into one of the creaky guest chairs across from him. The cracks in the seat dug into the skin of her hands when she fisted them against it, looking up to meet her boss’s eyes. She wished again for the security of her uniform, but the short skirt and long sleeved scoop neck top were a better look for her undercover assignment when she was walking around the streets.

More than once, she’d run into clients who recognized her, even without the long, blonde wig. Sometimes she wondered how that would play when she finally returned to her job.

“How was this week?” His tone would have been appropriate if he’d been asking about a visit with her family. Calm, collected. No one walking by would think he was inquiring about the hours she put in every week at a gentleman’s club.

“Long,” she said, fighting the urge to spill out how much she hated the place, how on edge she was every night when her coworkers left. Wondering whether that would be the time she wouldn’t be there when they were scooped up and taken like so many women had been over the past year. That it wasn’t always possible to find a good reason to walk down the long hallway and out to the parking lot, let alone to the bus stop where many of them waited on public transportation for rides home, short skirts exchanged for gym clothes and ball caps.

But she knew that wasn’t what Anderson wanted to hear. He wanted to hear she’d found something out, identified at least one person in the chain of men they’d discovered when a house full of women who were hours from being sold was found almost a year ago, thanks to an anonymous tip. Neither of the two dead men in the house were identified and none of the women had any useful information.

It wasn’t the first clue that something was seriously wrong or that trafficked women were being taken, held and moved through Detroit, but it was the biggest save they’d scored since finding out that there was a problem. Now they had a multi-thread undercover investigation and she’d been roped into dancing. On most cases, there’d have been an officer in the crowd to offer backup, but this wasn’t most cases.

Proper procedure was out the window.

The nights without backup wore on her. She couldn’t go on stage with a gun under her nonexistent jacket. Watching the women she worked with socialize with men she didn’t recognize, knowing they were agreeing to more private meetings for more money, realizing she couldn’t stop all of them from falling victim to the organization that was taking women…it weighed on her.

But she couldn’t say that to Chief Anderson. He wanted an update, not a run-down of her personal fears and the reasons why she wasn’t sleeping.

She pushed back her hair and met his eyes. “It was a long week, but I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Some grabby guys, but nothing more malevolent than that. All the women are accounted for. All their friends are accounted for. I got Peter to agree to swap me with a girl at the Down Under next week, so I’ll take a look around there too. I’m just not sure that this is the way to find information. It’s been months and I have nothing more than I had the first time I stepped foot in there.”

“You’re not the only leg of the investigation,” he reminded her, the lines on his face shifting as he frowned.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Just hold tight for another month or two. If nothing changes, we’ll pull you out and bring you back in. I’m sure you miss working cases.” Grace was on fake administrative leave until the case was over. Her visits to the precinct were easily explained by casual references to check-ins and deciding when she’d be back on the clock.

“I do.”

“You’ll be back to it soon enough.”

The promise wasn’t as reassuring as she’d expected. Being a police officer hadn’t been her dream—it had been one way to help out the world in the city she loved. Detroit was dirty, there was no question, but it was her city and she’d loved it since the moment she visited it in college, heading home with a roommate for the holidays.

She’d gone back to finish college in California, but Detroit had too strong a call for her to stay gone though, and the guy she’d fallen in love with in San Francisco hadn’t lasted six months in Detroit before he’d run back home. She understood that. It wasn’t for everyone—not when you couldn’t stop for street lights when driving through downtown in the middle of the night.

But it could be better. She knew it could be better.

“Thank you, Chief.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything you need?”

“No, sir. I wrote up a report of the week.” She reached into her shoulder bag and set a file folder on his desk.

“Thank you,” he said. The 13th precinct was the second station she’d worked at, and was by far more lax with paperwork than her first one. But her mentor, Lieutenant Perkins, had taught her the value of a thorough, well-written report, and she didn’t intend to break the habit now that she was spending more time swinging on a pole than scouring the streets and trying to close cases.

He looked at the folder, but didn’t move to open it. “If there’s nothing else…” He looked pointedly at the clock.

“There’s not. Thank you.” She rose, nodded her head and walked out of the office.

Stopping by the bullpen, she checked the notes on her desk. There wasn’t anything important. Just little pieces of gossip one of the dispatch girls had written on yellow stickies and tucked into the rolltop drawer for her to read at her leisure. Grace missed going out after shift for drinks with the girls, but being seen in public with anyone connected with the department wasn’t good protocol, even for her dead end undercover op.

Three years of hoping to get into something big, and all she’d gotten into was a thong and a plaid skirt

Sighing, she walked out of the station and immediately moved to browse at a clothing store that was only a quick stroll away. Winding between racks of brightly colored clothing, deep breaths helped her calm herself and reset herself from the officer she had to be in the station to the dancer she had to be in her off time. The girls from the club, the bar workers and the clients all lived in downtown Detroit and she didn’t want to be seen as anything other than another dancer, another potential girl to be taken.

At least she had a gun in her bag here.

Though browsing started as a cover, it reminded her that she wanted to pick up some stuff for her apartment. Three years in the same place and she still didn’t have a blender—the protein drinks she made in the morning would benefit from a high-powered blend instead of a half-hearted shake. She eschewed a cab and started walking toward a store she knew would have a mid-range blender that would do a good enough job, even if it wouldn’t crush ice uniformly.

She was so absorbed in the crisp fall air, the motion of her legs and the pass of vehicles that she didn’t hear the first time a masculine voice called out her stage name. “Dakota!”

“Dakota!”

When it finally registered that she was being summoned, she turned just in time to go face first into a muscled chest. She stopped cold, overwhelmed with the fresh, spicy scent of the man, the feel of his firm chest against her. It pushed back the chill of the day.

“It’s you,” he said, pulling back and searching her face. Her hands flew up to her hair before she forced them back down to her sides while she regarded the man who’d saved her at the bar the night before. Everything in her softened as she studied his face, warm and tanned with a smile that quirked up on the right side and a scar bisecting one of his eyebrows. It was almost indiscernible, but she catalogued it by habit. Looked like he’d been in a fight at some point.

“It is,” Grace said, letting a warm smile curve her lips. “You’re even more handsome in the daylight.” That slipped out before she could stop it.

“Then maybe you’ll agree to getting dinner with me instead of breakfast,” he said. “Do you have anywhere to be?” She studied his jacket while considering his question. It was obvious to her that he was a member of the Storm Runners, a club that gave the police less trouble than the few others with chapters in the area. Involved in a massacre a few years back, she recalled, but on the losing end. Current membership seemed to be pretty clean and she didn’t see any signs of drug use in his tired, but clear eyes.

Even so, he thought her name was Dakota. Spending time with him socially wasn’t the smartest move she could make. And besides, lying to a man she wanted in bed wasn’t one of Grace’s strategies, but he was so handsome with his quick smile and windblown hair. Maybe he didn’t have to know the truth and she could still enjoy him for a time. The investigation was still a long way from winding down.

“I’ll let you choose what kind of food we get,” he said, his grin broadening. The warmth of it glowed like sunlight on her skin and her internal defenses crumbled.

“I’m free,” she said. “I’m parked at my apartment, if you want to go away from downtown. It’s not far.”

“Let’s take my bike,” he suggested. She nodded, fell into step next to him and walked down the block, all thoughts of blenders and undercover assignments forgotten.
 

CHAPTER 7

H
e could tell he’d surprised her with the restaurant he’d chosen when she’s expressed a preference for Italian. It was the one his Mom worked at when she met his dad, a classic Italian place with great bread and no pretense. Once they were seated, he held up the menu.

“Anything is good, but their lasagna is the second best I’ve ever had.”

“Second best?”

“My mom was Italian,” he explained and she grinned. Tom started to talk about how she’d worked here, knew the recipes, improved on them, but stopped. Even the thought of how disappointed she’d be in him for failing to find Butch made him feel vaguely sick.

“Are you okay?” He’d gone silent and a little pale. Grace leaned forward and put her hand on his. “We can leave if you’re feeling sick. I’d be willing to do a rain check.”

“Just thinking about my mom is difficult,” he said. “She died a few years back. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That must have been so hard.”

“It was.” He cleared his throat and picked up the drink menu. “I think I’m going to get a beer. What about you?”

“Maybe a glass of red wine. Something that doesn’t have that metallic aftertaste.” He handed her the menu and she looked through it. “This merlot is good. Fruity and not too sweet, but not bitter either. It’ll be great with lasagna.”

“Do you know a lot about wine?”

“My sister works at a winery in California,” Grace said, thinking of the bright white walls and gleaming wood floors. “I’ve picked up a lot from her.”

“Nice.” They put in their drink orders and Tom convinced her to get an entire bottle. She didn’t have to drive home, and she might want more than one glass. “I’m more of a beer guy.”

“I like a few beers, but I’m mostly sober.”

“I used to be,” he said, his tone flattening before he shook his head. “So what were you out doing before I swooped you up?”

“Shopping.”

“No bags.”

“I was about to buy a blender when you dangled the possibility of food I didn’t have to cook myself in front of me.” She leaned back in the chair and grinned, reaching for the glass of water and taking a sip. “I decided to splurge because I got some birthday money from my grandmother.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“September 18, just a couple weeks ago.”

“When I used to get birthday money, it’d be gone two days later.”

“What did you spend it on?”

He grinned again and she felt the last of the nerves that had gathered in her stomach when she’d climbed onto the back of his bike fade away. Something about his smile made her insides light up, though she didn’t exactly understand why. Maybe it was the lazy flash of straight white teeth or the way the smile reached his eyes a second later, like he wasn’t used to really smiling.

It stirred her.

“I bought video games,” he said. “Xbox, specifically. Dad didn’t care if we had them in the house, but Mom refused to buy them for us unless it was Christmas. She said we’d have to work if we were going to spend that much time in front of the television.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?” The waiter set down the beer and uncorked the wine, pouring a bit in a glass for her to smell and taste. She smiled and he left the rest of the bottle at the table after pouring.

“Spend a lot of time in front of the television.”

“More than I should have. Takes a long time to beat back the Covenant. But I spent more time in the garage than I did in the living room. Working on my bike.”

He remembered the garage with the gleaming tools hanging on the wall and strewn over the workbench. His father had always insisted that they clean their tools when they were done, respecting the process. Though the clubhouse had been where most of the club had spent their time and done their repairs, it hadn’t been unusual for the old guard his father had started the club with to come in and turn a wrench or two on Max’s home base.

Tom felt a clench in his gut, remembering the men he’d never see again.

“Is that the same one you drove me here on?”

“No,” he said. “That’s my dad’s. I got it after he passed. Mine’s still parked in the garage at home.”

“It’s a nice bike,” she said. “Not that I know anything about it.”

“But you liked the ride?” He’d liked the way her hands had held him against her, the warmth of her slender body close to his back. Despite the hard wind that rushed by them on the interstate, Tom had imagined he could smell the scent of her perfume the whole way to the restaurant. It was crisp and inviting, fresh like apples. Such a change from the dark, sensual scent that had clung to her the night before.

“It was great,” she said. She reached for a piece of bread, broke it in half and smeared fresh butter over it. “It felt like flying. Never realized how much of the city you miss when you’re stuck in the back of a cab.”

“But you have a car?”

“Yes, but I don’t drive much. I had to replace three windows the first year I was here, so now I just leave it in the garage.”

“There’s too much crime in the city.” As soon as the words left his mouth, her expression tightened, almost like she disagreed. Or had taken offense. “Don’t you think?”

“Less than there used to be,” she said. “But there’s a lot of disenfranchised people here and a lot of people can’t find work.”

“There are other places to go.”

“You’re still here. There’s a lot of good in Detroit, but only if people work to make it the way it should be.” Her tirade reminded him of his father and it shut him down fast. Once upon a time, he’d believed in the city and that it could be changed for the better. Now the action of the Storm Runners frustrated him and he didn’t care if the entire city burned.

“Do you work to make it the way it should be?” he asked, not entirely kindly.

She stared him down and considered standing up, thanking him, paying for her drink and calling a taxi. But there was pain behind the anger that had brewed in his eyes when she’d spoken and she couldn’t stand to see it replace the warmth that had charmed her. So instead she just took another sip of her wine, let silence take the stage for a moment and then said in a soft voice, “I do what I can.”

“I’m sorry,” he said at length, exhaling and setting down his beer. “That was completely uncalled for.”

“Why did you say it?”

“What you’re saying…it reminds me of my dad. Mom, too, but Dad died fairly recently and it’s still fresh.”

“It hurts you to think of him?”

“In a lot of ways, he died for his ideals. If he’d been more selfish, he’d still be alive.”

“I see.” There were worse ways she could think of to die than to die for what you believe. But she wasn’t going to say that to a man who was still clearly grieving. “I’m sorry he’s gone. It’s obvious you loved him.”

“I did. The man I was before he died, everything I have and believed in, it was all thanks to him.” Tom sighed and some of the tension left his body. “I feel like every day he’s gone, I’m worse for it.”

“How long has it been?”

“A little more than a year,” he said. It hit her then that his father had probably died in the massacre that had taken out so many of the men in his club the Saint Patrick’s Day before last. She hadn’t been involved in the case, but it was a big deal when more than a dozen men died in one night and no one was arrested for it. She’d spent a lot of time around people who’d lost their loved ones violently and it seemed like Tom had the same depression and anxiety that came along with that.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I am too.”

The waiter came then with the food and they both let the subject drop. Tom had been telling the truth. It was the best lasagna she’d ever had. There was silence while they dug into their meals. Grace was certain she hadn’t had eaten a meal so good in years, not since she joined the force and started eating mostly granola, protein shakes and sandwiches. Whatever was easy to throw together before she collapsed on her couch at the end of the day to watch Netflix.

This, though, this had taken time to put together. The sauce was bursting with the natural sweetness of long-simmered fresh tomatoes.

_____

“God,” she said, taking another small bite between her perfect lips. “You weren’t lying about this.”

Tom had taken a single bite of his lasagna, then stopped to watch her. The pleasure that crossed her face at the taste of the food was palpable and he couldn’t think of anything in the world he’d rather do than watch her finish it. The flush on her cheeks and the way she sighed as she took another bite was more arousing than it should have been.

He wanted her.

He’d known it since he met her, but now it hit him with unexpected weight. He shifted in his chair and studied her, the high cheekbones and long, swanlike neck curving to strong shoulders and breasts that he wanted his mouth on, the rest of the patrons be damned.

Her nipples were hard underneath the thin top he wore and only pure strength of will kept him from leaning forward and fondling them, then popping one into his mouth to lick and suck.

“Are you okay?” Grace looked up and smiled at him. Her lips were generous; blood rushed to his dick and made his words come out with more bite than intended.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not eating.” One graceful hand gestured to his food and then to the full fork in her other hand. “It’s so good. I don’t think my mother could have made better, which is saying something.”

“She cooked?”

“No,” Grace said with a slight smile. He’d never wanted a woman to tell him more about her past, but he wanted more than just the single word, so he raised his eyebrows and waited. After a beat, she continued. “She’s a terrible cook, actually. Once she had to bake a lasagna for her mother-in-law and forgot to cook the noodles, though. They were a gummy, hard mess in this sauce she’d spent hours slaving over. Mom never did learn to cook anything else, but she spent the next month perfecting her lasagna before Grandma came back over. That was about the extent of her culinary prowess.”

“So who cooked?”

“My brother did most of the cooking. Luckily he’s older than me so by the time I was on solids, he was in the kitchen. He’s a miracle with pots and pans. Nothing he can’t fix up to make taste better.”

“But this lasagna is better than his?”

“I’ve only ever had Mom’s. I think he didn’t want to show her up.” Her smile widened. “Man, I miss them a lot.”

“They’re all in California?”

“Yes.”

“What brought you to Detroit, then?”

“I came for a visit and fell in love.” She shrugged. “Everywhere has its problems, but it just felt like my place. You know?”

Tom nodded.

He liked that she took bites between sentences, didn’t leave the food on her plate to make him think she was a lightweight. Dancing burned a lot of calories, Tom mused, because her body was tight, athletic, and she still plowed through the meal like a pro. The few times he’d bothered to eat dinner with a woman, she nibbled and fluttered and poked into his head instead of actually chewing and swallowing.

Not Dakota, though. She took another piece of bread, ripped it in half and added butter to the steaming surface. He wondered what her real name was.

“So do I get to ask whether Dakota is the name you’re born with?” Tom asked, reaching for his beer and raising his eyebrows. Her eyes met the table and then swung up, focusing on his while he took a long sip from the cold bottle.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Maybe one day.” Since his father had died…since Butch…he’d had enough people trying to cram their fingers into his brain and root around. He was content to let Dakota keep her secrets as long as she didn’t go away.

She waited for him to turn red or stammer his protest as her lack of transparency, but he didn’t react like so many of the men who felt entitled to her name after less contact than she’d had with him. Instead he grinned, a lazy flash of white teeth, and asked whether she wanted something for dessert when the lasagna was gone.

Picking up the dessert menu from the center of the table, she ran her gaze down it and stopped when she reached tiramisu.

“Tiramisu sounds good.”

_____

“Do you want to split it?” Grace assumed the right answer was yes, but between working out and dancing, she was hungry all the time lately. Crawling up and down the pole had taken her already lean body and added a new dimension. One she liked. After the case was closed, she was thinking about adding a pole to her home gym.

“No,” she said finally. “Let’s also get some of the gelato and split both of them between us.” If he thought she was greedy, all the better. Getting involved with someone who spent his nights at strip clubs and wanted her real name was a path she couldn’t go down.

“Great. I’ve never had the amaretto gelato before. Let’s get a scoop of that and one of chocolate too.”

“Sounds good. So your mom made good lasagna. What about you? Do you cook?”

“She didn’t teach me,” he said. “I was too busy playing with engines and shooting hoops. My sister was into the hoops, but not the engines. She can make anything mom could.”