Free STRIKE: Storm Runners Motorcycle Club 2 (SRMC) by Lauren Devane Page A

but her face went softer.
    “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I don’t have a problem with your job. I just took a shot where I thought it would land.”
    “Okay,” Grace said, studying him like she was searching for a sign of sincerity. “But if it happens again, we’re done.”
    He smiled, grateful. “So why are you hauling around drinks tonight?”
    “We’re shorthanded and it’s a big night for bachelor parties. I’ll be on stage soon enough.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, balancing expertly on what looked like long, metal toothpicks. Still, he couldn’t deny the way his eyes were drawn up her shapely legs. “Honestly, I’d rather serve drinks all night. You get less attention that way.”
    He could see how strong her arms were and wondered if the muscle tone owed itself to pole work or to hefting heavy trays of drinks and fried snacks.
    “Go serve,” he said, not wanting to make her hold them longer than necessary. He’d already kept her too long trying to get back in her good graces. “Come by when you can. I’ll be here all night.”
    “I told you that’s not needed.”
    “I don’t care.” He slid onto the barstool and raised a finger for the bartender. “When your shift is over, I can take you home or we can get some food.”
    “I drove over.”
    “Then you can drive me back to your place and I’ll walk back to get my bike. It’s not far.”
    “Tom…”
    “Go serve your drinks.” He turned away from her and placed an order for a beer.
    The rest of the night was slow, except for the few stolen moments he had with Dakota. At one point, she switched out the bright blonde hair he knew was a wig now for a cotton candy pink one that tumbled down her shoulders in ringlet curls.
    “What color is your real hair?” he whispered in her ear when she leaned against the bar to place another order for a rowdy group of men sitting in chairs near the stage where a buxom redhead danced. “Is it that silky black I see you with in public? Or is that a dye?”
    “That’s my real color,” she said, and the information felt like a prize. He craved anything real about her. When he’d decided that she was better off without him and didn’t contact her for two days, he could still feel her pull all the way from the shift he pulled at his bar. From his bed, where he twisted in the sheets sleepless at the thought of her gentle curves.
    She walked away, the scent of magnolia lingering behind her. Tom inhaled deeply and took another slow sip of his drink, careful not to slip down the path that ended at the bottom of a bottle. If he was going to look out for her, he was going to do it with less than two drinks in his system.
    He closed his eyes, centering himself when all the chaos inside pulled him back to the image of his father’s bullet-ridden body in the downtown morgue. Only this time, it was Dakota he saw through the window. Dakota he couldn’t save.
    Maybe he should have seen that counselor Carly recommended during one of their late night drinking contests.
    He felt a soft body close to his back and relaxed, recognizing her scent. “I forgot to ask if you wanted to do breakfast with me and Mandi, if you’re so determined to stick around.”
    “I’d love to.”
    “You can follow me to her place so I can drop her off, then head home.”
    “I’ll follow you home too, at least. A gentleman doesn’t leave a lady to make her way home after dark.”
    When she only sighed and didn’t argue, he grinned.
    _____
    Grace shoveled another bite of pancakes into her mouth, almost choking as Mandi made another face, describing her mother’s reaction to finding out she’d taken up stripping. Tom abandoned his food moments before, unable to keep from laughing at the woman’s antics. His omelet sat cooling on the plate.
    “She started to tell me to leave—Mom’s like that. Very southern. Very dramatic. Then I offered to finish paying off her car, and the next thing you know,