Chapter 1

1

Two hot and humid days after Striker landed in Georgia, he drove north and then east, heading anywhere but the base where he was stationed, trying to get away from everyone who reminded him of the war he’d been fighting. Leave meant nine days and not a care in the world.

That attitude must have crossed over into his navigation because somewhere along the way he’d made a wrong turn and wound up in Charleston, South Carolina. Didn’t matter, not really. He’d been trying for the coast, but farther north like Wilmington or Virginia Beach. He figured the exact location didn’t matter because he could screw a girl here as easily as he could further north. This week was about fun and sun, and Charleston had both.

He didn’t own fancy clothes, just jeans and plain collared shirts, which worked for him near the base when he needed to get dressed up. Everything was great until he stepped into the club in historic downtown Charleston. Polished guys with Hollister shirts danced with women in pale pink and yellow dresses. It was a little like he’d stepped back in time, except for the Hollister labels. These people were a different breed; purebred, cultured, not poor military scum just out trying to get laid.

He wasn’t prepared for the difference to be so obvious. None of these women would ever be considered bunker bunnies. They turned their noses up at him before even giving him a chance to speak. Was he that disgusting?

Pastels and plaids ruled the scene. No question, he stood out like a sore thumb in his blue Walmart polo. Strikeout! He cut his losses and headed to a bar not too far from his hotel.

The dimly lit parking lot was full of old trucks and even older cars. Two guys spilled out the door, fists flying. He stepped around them, not bothered by their anger and rage. It was more like the bars close to base with the clacking of pool balls mixing with the thud of heavy beer mugs hitting tabletops. The scent of stale beer hung in the air along with sweat and heavy cologne. The photos on the walls were from decades past, maybe when the bar was somewhere special to go. Now it seemed run-down, forgotten in time.

The stale scent of days old cigarette smoke was missing though, so he knew it wasn’t Georgia. An old jukebox in the corner played high-pitched tunes, a sure sign the speaker system was crap. The deep growl of men talking was interrupted by higher voices of women, but those female voices were few and far between.

Striker felt a little odd about how well he fit in. The club scene had left him dissatisfied. He just wanted to enjoy himself.

His gaze slid over the crowd. The women here were attached to men like flies on shit. He would skip getting laid tonight. Tomorrow he would drive up the coast and find a place where the women didn’t mind his choice in clothes. He could drive into DC and find some patriotic woman there who wanted to help a soldier out.

Striker ordered a beer, needing something to dull the misery of being alone. Another fight broke out, and the two guys knocked over tables before they went down and rolled around. A bouncer-type guy, or maybe just the bartender, separated the pair .

This place seemed a little too angry for him. He drank the last of his beer and ambled to the bathroom. This place was an actual dive bar, with a stinky bathroom to match the sticky floors.

While washing his hands, he swore he heard a sniffle. He shut off the water and stood still. The noise was coming from the back stall. He moved to the door and listened. The soft snuffle of a sob hit him. Someone was crying.

Jesus, some guy was crying in the bathroom stall? Surely, he knew how stupidly dangerous that was? Walking out would be the smart thing. There wasn’t any reason he should get involved, but the guy was bawling his eyes out. What if he’d been hurt? What if one of those jerks out there had tried something?

His heart twisted, and his head buzzed. His sense of responsibility had earned him promotions in the Army, but he hated this kind of shit. Always having to be the bigger man meant he got involved when he should walk away. Shit. Shit. Shit. He couldn’t leave well enough alone.

Striker tapped on the door and rolled his eyes, wishing he didn’t have this sense he needed to help. “Hey, you okay in there?”

The crying came to a shuddering stop. He waited not so patiently for an answer. Nothing. The dude had to be embarrassed for being called out for crying in the men’s room. What type of guy would go to the men’s room at a bar like this and cry anyway? He was just asking for trouble.

“Listen, if you need help, I can call the cops.”

“No cops.”

Striker stared at the door, shock holding him mute. His heart sped up. The voice had been light, airy, like a female voice. Oh shit, this was worse than he suspected.

“Ma’am, you should not be in here.”

“I’m sorry.” She sniffled again. “I made a mistake, and I rushed in. I thought it was the women’s, and then I was in here and some guys came in and I couldn’t escape, and now you’re in here, and I’m still trapped.” Her words slammed together like someone had stepped on the accelerator that made her talk.

Striker blew out a breath, trying to absorb everything she’d said. Not even two seconds had passed, and she pulled the stall door open. Shock sucked his breath from his lungs. She had one side of her hair twisted in her fists; the other hung free. Her dark hair was long and wavy, like the waves on a sea, and he wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it.

Her eyebrows were pinched and her lips thin, but that didn’t make her less beautiful. Her high cheekbones and upturned nose gave her classic looks. Vibrant green eyes stared back at him. Maybe they looked so green because she’d been crying. And then there was the red and puffy eye which meant she’d been hit. The busted lip which still oozed blood was another sign of the hit she’d suffered.

What the hell? Anger flashed so hot he wanted to rip the stall apart. He needed to know who the bastard was who’d hit her.

Striker forced himself to still, not wanting to scare her any more than she already was.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here. I made a mistake. I-I didn’t—” She burst into another round of tears.

He put his arm around her shoulder and led her out to the hall. The woman reached out with her hands and grabbed on to the wall, effectively stopping herself and him in the process. Her head shook violently as her eyes went wide.

“No, I can’t go out there. He’ll see me.”

Another flash of anger hit hard. “Hold on. Who’ll see you?”

She pushed out of his arms and backed up fast, moving deeper into the hall. “I can’t. He’s going to know I…I can’t.”

“Okay, just a moment. Are you in danger?”

She blinked, focusing on something over his shoulder. He held still, his eyes on her while listening for a scruff of a shoe, a harsh grumble, or maybe a curse word flying into the air. Nothing. Her gaze flashed to his, and her lips trembled as her brows bunched .

She lifted her hand and chewed on her thumbnail. Her nerves seemed high, her gaze shifting over his shoulder, then back to him again like she expected someone to attack his rear.

“I didn’t know what type of person he was. I agreed to a date because a friend said they knew him. But he’s not…normal or nice…I’m not sure what word to use. He’s just not a good person.”

Striker took a step closer. “Did he hurt you? Is he the one who gave you these?” He reached up almost touching her lip and then pointed to her eye.

A shudder rippled through her as more tears flowed. He almost missed the brief nod she gave. Anger boiled over so fast he spun before he realized he’d turned away from her.

“Wait. I can’t face him,” she cried out. “He’s strong—he’ll beat you up.”

Striker’s lips twitched into a smile. He chuckled as he turned to her again. Explaining to her the guy wouldn’t know what hit him wasn’t really necessary. She didn’t need to know the intimate details of how he fought.

“He won’t touch me, but I plan on teaching him a lesson. Which guy is he? Come and point him out.”

Her eyes went even wider, and she shook her head violently as she backed up even more. “No, he’ll hit you. ”

He clenched his fists, preparing for a fight. “I hope he does.”

Striker reached for her but kept his grasp gentle. He didn’t want to hurt her as he led her out to the main room. Luckily for him, she went easily.

Her hands shook, and she balked a few feet into the room. He glanced at her. Her lips had thinned out even more, and a bead of blood bubbled to the surface. No one should have hit her. Ever.

She moved to stand a little behind him as she grabbed his shirt, twisting her fingers in the fabric. Her trembling made him even angrier.

Arms crossed over his chest, scowl on his face, Striker glanced around the bar, searching for the big guy who had hurt this lovely woman. No one even glanced their way. Her breath hitched as she shivered against him. Fear had this woman tied up tight.

The music on the jukebox died out as the song ended. Now or never. “Hey,” he barked out. “Who hurt this woman?”

People froze. The bartender’s mouth hung open as he lowered the glass he was wiping. Pool cues dropped to the table. Striker waited for the offender to step forward. No one moved.

“Who was it, darling?” he tossed over his shoulder.

Her fingers uncurled from his shirt before she ducked out from behind him. The bartender shuffled out from behind the bar and tugged the worn cord on the jukebox, silencing the music.

The few people still playing pool stopped, and the last of the laughter died. All eyes turned to him, but no one spoke up. He prepared himself to face a bar full of angry men. Foolhardy at best, this was a suicide mission at the extreme. He should have walked away, but he wasn’t the type of man to leave a woman in a bind.

His lips curled up into a wicked smile as the odds grew dimmer. He’d signed up for the military to fight the good fight, and now it was time to give it up for glory.

The reasoning was wrong, and he’d probably be in trouble if he survived, but the challenge had been thrown out, and he wouldn’t back down.