Strike

  STRIKE

  Book Three

  of the

  Spark Series

  Jennifer Ryder

  STRIKE

  Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Ryder

  Published by Jennifer Ryder

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the author, addressed “Request: Copyright Approval”, at jenniferryder01@gmail.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Jennifer Ryder is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs or musicians or artists mentioned in this book.

  Cover Art and Design by Rebecca Berto of Berto Designs

  Editing by Lauren K McKellar

  Formatting by Max Effect

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  This is dedicated to those out there who believe they aren’t enough. I have something important to say to you:

  You are enough.

  Be yourself, never let anyone or anything hold you back, and believe that to someone in the world, you are everything.

  x

  PROLOGUE

  Eighteen months after Spike

  * SPENCER (JONES) *

  My head pounds, alerting me to the fact that I’m alive. Barely. I run my hand over my bare chest to find a set of fingers clad with rings. The hand tightens, sharp nails scratching my skin as they sweep over my ribs. I shudder with the realisation that she’s still here. That was not part of the plan.

  Her hand continues over to my hipbone, and curls around my side. I turn to see her face buried in the pillow beside me, a cascade of fiery red curls tangled down her back, a strong contrast to her pale skin.

  I strain to lift my head off the pillow, and there he is. Ryan. On the far edge of my king-sized bed, face down, bare arse and all.

  Fuck.

  I’m here again. My life on repeat.

  My liver screams out its hate for me, and my body aches in silent protest. And why the fuck is my arse sore?

  I wriggle to release myself from her hold.

  I don’t like them to stay, but Ryan and I were obviously too fucked-up to care. I must’ve passed out, because normally I deal with their exit.

  I don’t do mornings. I don’t do awkward. I like simple hook-ups, and then “see ya”; No expectations, no complications.

  This here looks complicated.

  Walking naked across my bedroom, the floor littered with condom wrappers and clothes, I pick up a rogue black leather shoe and throw it at Ryan’s arse.

  He chokes on his snore, and stirs. “Hey, what the fuck, man?” He rolls over, thankfully tugging the tangled sheets with him to shield his dick. I don’t need a vision of his giant cock in the back of my head today.

  “What’s up is that you and Princess Redhead need to leave, buddy. I gotta get to work,” I whisper loudly. Working for Dad today is totally gonna blow.

  Ryan swings his legs off the bed, and stretches his arms over his head. “Well, you never fail to disappoint, man. Guess I’ll catch ya next time I’m in town.”

  I take a white crumpled towel that I must have left on the floor yesterday and wrap it around my hips. “That depends, mate. If you’re the reason my arse is sore, then this was the last time. Oh, and you might just get the shit kicked out of you.”

  He chuckles quietly to himself. “You don’t remember?” He grabs his jeans from the floor in front of him, and slips them on.

  “Remember what?” Oh no. Ryan did not go there. I’ll kill him. On instinct, my teeth grind against each other, and I breathe out heavily through my nose as I stalk towards him.

  He holds up a hand. “Relax,” he says, as he juts his chin towards the redhead. “Miss Ginger Sex Fiend over there brought toys.”

  “Fuck,” I gasp. I’ve seriously gotta lay off the drink.

  “Now, get outta here. I’ll take care of Ginger.” Ryan winks, and runs his hands through his mussed up sandy-coloured hair.

  Yeah. I need to get to work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * SPENCER *

  Wednesday

  She’d looked over at me not just once, but three times. And then she went back to her laptop and put her earphones in.

  I’ve gotta stop looking. I always pick the wrong ones. The ones that stalk like the crazy redhead I’m avoiding tonight, hence the reason I’m in this random café and not at my usual place. I just want a night off from the drama. A quick meal in peace.

  I read the menu. Again. There are too many bloody things to choose from. I hate going somewhere new, especially somewhere that hasn’t been recommended. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to many things, but especially food. I appreciate a good meal. Call me a food snob, but life’s too short to eat shit.

  From two tables over, amongst the noise of the busy café, I’m certain she started to sing something sweet under her breath. So then I had to take another look. Then she caught me staring.

  She didn’t hold my gaze for all that long, but her sly smile said more about her than I probably should know. Confident enough to stare. Beautiful enough to probably have any man she wanted, but not made-up beautiful, not out to impress. A natural kind of pretty, and I could guarantee she’d be hot in bed. Is she already taken? Not that that’s stopped me before. Ever.

  Should I talk to her? If I do, will she at least have half a brain in her head? I always pick the dumb ones, the ones that throw themselves at me. Can’t say I’m not lucky with the stunners. They have bodies to die for, but almost always … dumb.

  My curiosity getting the better of me, I walk over and take out the chair in front of her.

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” she says before I get an opportunity to open my mouth. She tugs out her earphones, cocks one perfectly groomed eyebrow and crosses her arms under what I guarantee to be a perfectly rounded C-cup. Damn. My Achilles heel. Tits.

  She looks down at her chest and then back to me.

  Sprung. As if I could help myself when she folded her arms like that. She might as well have rubbed her tits in my face. Something to look forward to, perhaps.

  “I should say the same thing. You were eyeballing me long before I took a good look.” />
  “Couldn’t help it.” She shrugs, and my eyes wander over the smooth golden skin of her bare shoulders. That tank top is definitely working for her.

  “Why?” I ask sitting in the chair opposite her, before she can tell me no.

  “You seem too pretty, too dressed up for a place like this.”

  What? I didn’t think I’d gone that overboard, and it wasn’t like I’d gone to the local fish and chip shop for a feed; the café was modern, but with a grungy, relaxed kind of vibe. I wasn’t slumming it.

  Wait, what did she just say I was?

  “Too pretty?”

  “Yeah, ridiculously pretty,” she says and smiles, giving me a glimpse of her perfect white teeth.

  “Right. Is that a bad thing?” I cross my arms and straighten out my legs, brushing her calf under the table. She moves her leg slightly but rests it against mine, as if she’s holding her ground. She’s not the least bit uncomfortable in my presence. She’s … indifferent. And it’s attractive as all hell.

  “Depends on whether you use it for good or evil. I’m undecided though. Maybe we can talk for a while and you can help me make up my mind.”

  “I think I can do that. You eaten yet?”

  “Nope. The cocktails are looking pretty promising, but now I have a dinner companion I’d better behave myself.”

  Mmm. “You make a habit of misbehaving?”

  She runs her lower lip between her teeth. “Mmm, not so much anymore. Of course it always depends on the circumstances.” She picks up a menu. “I need to eat, so let’s share a few dishes.”

  “Sure,” I say casually.

  “Seeing’s you practically burnt a hole in your menu over there, why don’t you let me order? I know what’s good,” she says. Her steely-grey eyes scan over my arms and chest before a smirk tickles her plump lips. “I’m assuming you have a pretty healthy appetite?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I say, puffing up my chest. I’ve got an appetite, alright; I just hope she’s on the menu. She’s looking more delicious with each word that comes out of that pretty mouth. I bet that mouth would work wonders.

  “What’s your name, pretty boy?”

  I laugh out loud, and extend my hand. Her soft palm glides against mine, and she shakes firmly. Her short fingernails are painted black, kind of rock-chick like. I dig it. Not a princess. She runs her other hand through her long, caramel-coloured hair. No ring on her finger. Good start.

  “Spencer.” I don’t wanna be Jones tonight.

  “April,” she says.

  She waves at the tall blond waitress, and I watch April curiously as she closes her laptop and rests the menu on top of it, pointing to a few items as she orders. Soaking up her warm presence, I listen to the soothing tone of her voice and her hearty laugh as her and the waitress talk about a night out they must have had recently.

  I think I have to take April home. Yes. I. Do.

  “Good friend of yours?” I ask, once we are alone.

  “Yeah. We went out last weekend. Danced until the sun came up. Best night out I’d had in a loooong time.” She smirks at me—as if keeping to herself the more exciting parts of the evening—and then grins. It looks like April knows how to party. Those two girls moving together on the dance floor would have been hard for any man to resist. They would’ve had guys eating out of the palms of their hands. I could have been one of them.

  “That smile on your face tells me it was good night.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  What did that mean? Was she with that girl, or did she pick up?

  “So let’s move onto more interesting things, huh?” she says.

  “Huh?” I always have a way with words, but not this second.

  “Tell me something real, Spencer,” she says, taking her laptop and putting it in the worn-out leather satchel beside her.

  “The more I sit here, the more I like you.”

  She chuckles softly, and reaches her hand across the table, placing it over mine. “We’ve barely spoken; you don’t know anything about me. Don’t tell me it’s because you like what you see, ‘cause that’s not gonna help you.”

  I move my other hand over hers, and rub my thumb over her knuckles. “I won’t lie, April. You’re beautiful. Don’t shoot the messenger.” She rolls her eyes, then lets out a long breath through her nose. I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on. Tell me something about you.”

  She slides her hand out of mine, and tucks her long hair behind one ear.

  “My mother wanted me to be a ballerina.”

  I resist the urge to zoom in on her A-grade cleavage, because I know for a fact I’ve never seen a ballerina with a pair of tits like that.

  “So, are you one?”

  She laughs, like I’d imagine an angel would, sweet and melodic. “God no. I don’t know what you know about the ballet, but typically ballerinas don’t have boobs. I had trouble finding outfits that didn’t make me look like a chorus girl. Not a good look. Besides, I’m more of a tomboy, and tomboys don’t do tutus.”

  I let out a low chuckle. I imagine she’d look more at home in a pair of steel-capped boots. I’m sure she’s wearing boots now, although I don’t wanna stick my head under the table to check. Or maybe I do.

  “Bulimia seemed to go with the territory. I couldn’t starve myself. I love my food, but most of all I couldn’t pretend to love something I didn’t.”

  Ain’t that the truth. “Yeah, I get that.”

  “So what’s your issue? Everyone has one. Is yours a mother or father issue?”

  Not the kind of question I was expecting. “Father.”

  “What’s the deal there?”

  “Family business. I’m expected as the only son to take over. Finance is growing on me, but I just don’t know if I can do it for the long haul. It’d crush my Dad if he knew the way I feel, let alone what it’d do to him and the business if I left.” And the reality is, I don’t think I could do it.

  Why the hell did I just blurt that all out? Whatever possessed me, it kind of feels … good to vent. Even if it is to a complete stranger. Maybe that’s why it was so easy. I’m not about to go blurting out about riding, though. When girls find out about I’m a professional motocross rider, that’s when they go silly. Although on first impression, I don’t think April would have silly in her. But I’ve been wrong before. Very wrong.

  “Do you ever get the feeling sometimes you live your life to please other people?” I ask her, hoping for an honest answer.

  “I used to, Spencer. Not anymore. I learnt a long time ago to do things for me. It took a few life lessons though.”

  She turns over her wrist, and moves her hand towards me. A tattoo on the inside of her wrist, in black cursive writing simply says ‘free’. Nice.

  “When I realised that, I got this as a permanent reminder.”

  Unable to stop myself, I run my finger over her inked skin. She shivers with the touch, but lets me continue.

  “I like it,” I say, my voice low and hoarse. “Do you have any more?”

  She leans in closer. “Yeah, but before you ask,” she whispers, “I can’t show you here without getting arrested for indecent exposure. Besides, we just met.”

  I groan low in my throat, imagining all the little places she could mean. I now have a new quest in life—to have April splayed out, buck naked on my bed, so I can personally inspect those damn tattoos.

  The same blond-haired waitress comes to our table, rudely interrupting my wicked thoughts. Regretfully, I take my hand from April’s wrist. The waitress places an empty plate in front of each of us, and one small dish with food in the middle. She gives me the once-over, and then looks to April.

  April’s eyes light up, like she’s been delivered a gold bar on a plate. “The pork belly here will change your life,” she says, batting her long eyelashes at me and smiling. She serves some on my plate, and then her own.

  It’s not the pork belly I’m worried about changing it. I clear the lump in my throat, an
d try to think of something intelligent to say.

  “Looks good.” That’s all I’ve got. She’ll think I’m a dumbarse.

  I’m still staring at those lashes. And the tiny freckles dotted over her button nose and across her cheeks.

  “For a long time I was always trying to please someone.” She frowns, and I wonder exactly who she means. “But finally, at twenty-five, it’s all me.”

  I’d thought she was pretty much that age, but damn it if I was going to ask. Most girls hate to reveal their age. I still don’t get why.

  I take a small piece of the pork belly, and the soft, deliciously sweet meat melts in my mouth. “Holy fuck, this is good.”

  “Told ya,” she says.

  “How come I haven’t seen you ‘round the neighbourhood before?”

  “That depends. Where do you usually hang out?” she asks, and I watch her lick her finger after swirling it in the remaining sticky Asian sauce on the plate. Why’d she have to do that in front of me? Now my brain wants to concentrate on my dick rather than the conversation I am trying to have. Get with it, brain. I’m trying something new here!

  “There’s a few clubs and bars ‘round here. I usually go out a couple of times a week … if I’m around.”

  “That’d be part of the reason. Aside from my girly night, I don’t go out much. As I said, it’d been a while. I’m not big on clubs as a place to meet people. Generally the kind of people I want to meet aren’t there.”

  “Are you making a generalisation about people who go to bars and clubs?” I frown, and wonder if she’s having a go at me. I don’t need her to tell me some of those joints are seedy, and typically I know the kind of woman I’m gonna find there. Most of the time, that’s the point.

  “No, I’m not. Each to their own, but call me crazy, I find a conversation is a good way to get to know someone, not yelling at the top of my lungs while a bunch of pissed blokes grope you while you get a drink.”

  “Fair call.”

  “Besides that, I’ve been travelling overseas for the past year for work. I’m a photographer. I’ve not long got back.”

  “Photography. Cool.” Sounds interesting. I would have pegged her to be into something like that. She seems the artistic type.