We reach the row of lilac bushes that mark the edge of my property, the street light blocked by the large oak tree in the yard next door.
“You leave your door unlocked just now?”
I shriek, jumping back as my heart leaps into my throat.
Striker steps out of the shadows. “You forget I was out here already?”
I gasp. “I didn’t see you anywhere.”
He snickers. “Yeah, that’s kinda the point.”
My hand is at my chest as I try to slow my hammering heart. “I told you I didn’t need a bodyguard,” I splutter.
“And I told you it wasn’t your choice. Besides.” He glances toward the door. “You didn’t lock your door when you left your house. Anyone could just walk in while you were gone.”
“This is a safe neighborhood,” I protest. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Tank ain’t worried about people from this neighborhood.” Striker shakes his head. “You need to be more careful.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then close it again. This isn’t going to work. It seems clear to me that Striker won’t leave on his own.
“Nice dog,” he remarks, bending down to pet Bert.
“No!” I blurt, reaching out to stop Striker. “Bert doesn’t like strange men!” Bert doesn’t really like men at all, to be honest. He barely tolerated Mark. I tighten my grip on the leash, preparing for him to lunge.
But to my utter astonishment, Bert does nothing of the sort. Instead, he lifts his head to sniff the hand Striker offers. After a moment gives it a soft lick.
“There you go, boy.” Striker looks up at me. “Boy, right?”
I nod, gaping at them.
Striker registers my surprise. “He not usually like this with strangers?”
“That’s an understatement,” I manage to croak.
“Calm energy does it,” he tells me. “Dogs sense agitation.”
By now, Bert is leaning his head into Striker’s hand as Striker scratches his ears. In spite of myself, I find my irritation at him temporarily melt away.
“What’s his name?” Striker asks.
“Bert.”
“Like Ernie and Bert?”
My heart squeezes painfully. “Exactly like Ernie and Bert,” I say. “We used to have a dog named Ernie as well.”
“We?”
“My husband and I.”
Striker straightens. I don’t know what else to say, so I click my tongue at Bert and we start walking again. Something tells me that the biker is going to follow me. And sure enough, a second later, I hear Striker’s footsteps catching up to me.
It’s a free country. He can walk wherever he wants.
I should speed up, but I don’t, because it would feel too juvenile.
“Nice neighborhood,” he rumbles after a few moments. “You live here a long time?”
“A few years,” I grudgingly reply. “We moved here when we got married.”
“Oh.” He waits a beat. “So, is your husband working late tonight or something?”
“No.”
I resist the urge to say more. It’s none of his business, frankly. And since it’s not general knowledge that Mark and I have split up, the idea of confiding this fact to a man I only just met — a man whose very presence in my life is unwelcome — just feels weird. Luckily, Striker doesn’t ask for clarification. We walk in silence down the street, with Bert leading the way, straining slightly at his leash as he always does.
Striker doesn’t try to fill the silence, which I actually appreciate. Still, it feels awkward not talking. I know that in theory, he is here to protect me — even though I don’t want him here — so I know I shouldn’t need to be afraid of him. But it’s unsettling to be walking in the dark with a strange man. A biker, at that. And from what I understand of the Lords of Carnage, a criminal.
We get to the end of the block. There’s a small public garden here where Bert usually does his business. Just like clockwork, he picks his favorite tree and lifts his leg to pee. Twenty feet further on, he starts to circle in place. I reach in the pocket of my jacket and pull out a plastic bag.
“I got that,” Striker grunts, taking it from me.
I don’t argue. A few seconds later, he stands and walks over to toss the bag in a public bin.
“Thank you,” I say.
We walk back the way we came, again without speaking. When we reach my front sidewalk, he clears his throat.
“So, I’ll try this again,” he says. “About your husband. I’m gonna need to know something about his patterns, what he looks like, what kind of car he drives.”
“Why would you need to know that?” I challenge.
Striker gives me an amused look. “Well, I’m guessing he’s probably the kinda guy who looks like money, like you do, but I still need to be able to recognize who’s coming and going at your place, and whether they pose a threat.”
“I still haven’t agreed to this whole bodyguard thing, you know,” I remind Striker.
“For the last time, I ain’t looking for your agreement,” he fires back. “I’m doin’ this as a favor to Tank. But if you don’t want me to mistake your husband for an intruder, you’d best tell me how to recognize him.”
I hesitate. “He doesn’t live here. So it’s a moot point.”
He cocks his head at me. “You’re divorced?”
“No, not yet,” I say softly. “But we’re not together anymore, so eventually we will be. That’s not something that’s generally known, by the way. We haven’t told most people we’ve split up.”
“Why not? You think there’s a chance you’re getting back together?”
“Oh, no. Definitely not.”
“Well then, why?”
“He just…” I trail off, embarrassed. “Mark doesn’t like the idea of being divorced. For his image. He’s an investment advisor, and he thinks being married makes him seem more trustworthy to new clients.”
“He hoping for a reconciliation?”
“I don’t know. But that’s not going to happen.”
“Then why not just kick him all the way to the curb? What do you care about his image?”
I purse my lips. “Can we drop this subject? I don’t need Striker Rossi’s marital counseling services.”
“That’s probably good, considering I’ve never been married.”
I hesitate. “So, can I ask you something? In exchange for me telling you about Mark?”
“That your husband’s name? Mark?”
“Yes.”
“Shoot.”
I point at his black eye. “What happened to your face?”
“Nothing important.”
“It looks important.”
“Nah. Just let a guy throw a few punches at me for money.”
I stare at him. “Do you do that often?”
“When I need the cash.”
“Is that… legal?”
“You gonna turn me in to the cops?” he smirks at me.
“No.”
I take in his words. This man lives in a world I can only imagine. Once again, I find myself wondering if I should be afraid of him.