Page 9 of Striker’s Rebel

The air around him goes colder.

DAMNED SINNERS MC is stitched across his cut.

I know the name.

Everybody around Roseburn Falls does.

The man behind me loosens his grip.

Jamie doesn’t move.

Neither does the stranger.

His eyes stay fixed on the hands still touching me.

“Take your hands off her if you want to live.”

Chapter 2

Striker

A woman yells somewhere across the parking lot.

I turn toward the sound and round the row of trucks.

Three men have her cornered.

Bad fucking choice.

One bastard has both her arms pinned behind her while another moves in. The third hangs close, blocking any easy way out.

She’s still fighting.

Twisting against the hold, cursing at them, trying to wrench herself free.

Something hot and vicious settles beneath my ribs.

I noticed her inside the Red Den. Hard not to when she looked the way she did. Honey-blond hair, soft curves, and a mouth that distracted me more than once while I was supposed to be talking numbers with the manager.

Thirty-six years had put enough hard miles on me to know better than to get distracted by someone who looked that young and soft.

Pretty little thing had no business catching my attention as hard as she did.

Seeing another man’s hands on her now turns that interest into something meaner.

I give them one chance to let her go.

The dumb bastards waste it.

The one in front looks at me. “Mind your own fucking business.”

I keep walking.

At six-four, I’m used to men reconsidering their choices when I get close enough for them to understand exactly how bad the next few minutes might go. Years of fighting, first because I had to and later because Uncle Sam paid me for it, have taught me plenty about how to put a man down.

These three apparently require a demonstration.

I reach the bastard holding her.