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“Striker! You home?” I call out as I bang on his front door. His bike’s nowhere to be seen so I’m unsure he’s here, and since I’ve been knocking for a good five minutes with no response, I’m guessing he’s not.
Heading back to my bike, I pull up the address for his old lady on my phone. Striker has an odd relationship in so far as he’s been with this woman for five years, yet they still have separate homes. I don’t blame her, though; he can be a bastard to her.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at her house and spend five minutes knocking on her door, too. Same response here. No answer. And I’m growing angrier by the minute.
I call Hunt.
“You found him?” he answers.
“Not yet. Do we have any other addresses for him besides his and his old lady’s?”
“Yeah. You want me to check it out?”
“No, send it through. I’ll go.” At this point, I’m too worked up to go home and give Birdie the best of me. Plus, I want to let Striker know he’s fucked up and I won’t be looking the other way again.
Hunt sends the address through, and I’m pissed to see it’s a half-hour ride away, but I make the journey and am rewarded with the sight of Striker’s bike in the driveway.
I receive the same response, though, at this place. No fucking answer when I knock. I’ve no idea whose place this is, but at this point, I don’t really care. Banging harder, I bellow, “Striker! Answer the goddamn door!”
Another minute or so passes before the front door is ripped open and Striker appears looking trashed. “Fuck, Winter, what the fuck’s going on?”
My boot thuds as it lands heavily inside the house. Gripping his shirt with both hands, I growl, “You’re in a world of fucking shit. That’s what’s going on.” I barrel him backwards down the hallway and into the lounge room. “Hunt had you down to watch the warehouse this morning. Why the fuck aren’t you watching it?”
Understanding flashes in his eyes before an excuse I don’t want to fucking hear rushes from his mouth. “Shit, sorry, brother. I clean forgot.”
I shove him away from me. “You clean forgot. That’s the worst fucking excuse I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Scrubbing his face, he says, “Melody and I got into it last night—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Striker. That’s not a good enough reason anymore. Hell, we’ve all got personal shit going on, but you’re the only one who doesn’t seem able to pull it together and manage your club responsibilities. That shit ends today.”
A woman I don’t know enters the lounge room, groggily rubbing her eyes. She looks as trashed as Striker, with mascara smudged all over her face, dirty blonde hair sticking out at odd angles, and wearing a thin T-shirt that covers hardly any of her body. “What’s going on?” she asks.
He scowls and points towards the hall. “Leave. This doesn’t concern you.”
She returns his scowl. “This is my fucking house, asshole.”
Moving to her, he grips her arm tightly. “And I fucking pay for it, Tara, so get the fuck out of this room.”
As he drags her out, she grumbles, “Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
He bends his face to hers and says something I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it convinces her to do as he says. “Fucking hell,” he mutters as he comes back to me when we’re alone.
“It’s no wonder you’re having fucking problems,” I say, unable to keep my opinion to myself. I don’t generally get involved in club members’ personal lives or relationships, but Striker’s managed to draw enough anger out of me today that I’ll tell him exactly what I think.
He doesn’t like that and hits me with the same scowl he gave Tara. “My problems are none of your business.”
“They are when they affect your ability to get the shit done that’s asked of you.”
“I’ve missed a few things—”
“You’ve missed more than a few fucking things,” I roar, his dismissal of his screw-ups causing me to see red. “And you’ve fucked up shit that shouldn’t have been. I’ve let it all ride because I knew you had stuff going on at home. But like I said before, that ends today. I want your ass out of here as soon as I leave. You’re on watch for the rest of the day and all day tomorrow. After that, I’ll have a list longer than you can fucking imagine of shit I want taken care of.” I move closer to him. “And if you so much as mess one thing up, arrive late to anything, or fucking miss something again, I’ll bring a world of fucking hurt down on you.”
The scowl remains on his face, but there’s also surprise in his eyes. I’ve never spoken to any club memb
er this way, and he knows it. I’ve never had to because no one has stepped out of line in the year the club has been in existence.
When he doesn’t respond to what I’ve said, I bark, “Do you understand?”
