Page 13 of Striker’s Rebel

Pretty. Soft. Sweet.

The name fits her.

“June what?”

“Gill.”

“Braxton Sanders.”

Her brow creases.

“Striker,” I add.

Her gaze drops to my cut again.

“The Damned Sinners.”

“Yeah.”

Everybody in Roseburn Falls knows the club. Grim wears the President patch. I handle enforcement. If somebody threatens one of our brothers, our businesses, or anything belonging to the club, I’m generally the man sent to make sure it doesn’t happen twice.

Tonight I came to the Red Den because some of our liquor has been disappearing before it reaches Pete.

Our brand moves through bars and restaurants across the county, and the Red Den is one of our regular accounts. Three recent deliveries came up short.

Pete counted the cases when they arrived, marked each shortage on the delivery paperwork, and had the driver sign off on it. We credited him for what never reached his door.

Nothing big enough to make headlines.

Enough to make Grim suspicious.

We don’t ignore people stealing from us.

Pete and I spent almost an hour going through those deliveries before I headed outside.

Then I found June.

My priorities rearranged themselves pretty fucking fast.

She looks at the men again. “Are they going to be okay?”

“Probably.”

Her head whips toward me. “Probably?”

“They’re breathing.”

“That’s your standard?”

“For them? Yeah.”

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

I like watching her try to decide whether I’m serious.

I am.