He fucking left.

Before I could even ask him to stay, he pulled his pants on, shoved his feet into his boots, and grabbed the rest of his shit from the floor. Technically he had already spent the night with me since it was nearly five in the morning when he decided he’d had his fill of me so I wasn’t expecting much. I figured he’d at least lay beside me, get an hour or two of sleep and then when I had to get my ass up and ready for work we’d part ways like any two civilized adults who had spent hours fucking each other senseless.

Instead I got a bullshit wham, bam, thank your ma’am.

Actually, I got a tip of the chin accompanied by thanks for a sweet night, pretty girl.

I barely managed a wave before he vanished.

I thought showering would help erase the memory of him, that it would ease the sting of rejection, but after I stepped out and stared at my reflection in the mirror, it became clear last night wouldn’t disappear as quickly as the man responsible for the hickey on my neck the size of my fist.

Bastard.

That’s not the only parting gift he left behind though, Stryker was generous, bruising the insides of my thighs ensuring I remembered him with every step I took.

Worst of all, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, specifically my eyes. They may be a part of me but after last night my green eyes belonged to the stranger in the bar I took home with me. The stranger named Stryker. The veteran biker, covered in tattoos who made me feel like I was the prettiest thing he ever laid his eyes on.

For the first time in my adult life I felt like I didn’t have to compete with a man, that I could be myself and not prove my worth. For one night I was just a girl. A pretty girl. I trusted him with my body, surrendered control and allowed Stryker to lead.

One night.

Now it’s over and done with.

I pushed the thoughts of Stryker from my head, put my game face on and drilled it into my head that it was a new day. Every dawn of a new day meant it was time for this girl to make moves. I’m a paper chaser, I don’t like feeling vulnerable and I have no time to waste on feeling sorry for myself. I strutted into the office, wearing a turtleneck and chalked it up to a great night, great sex and a good memory. Yes, a turtleneck. Not very fashionable and uncomfortable as all hell, but I wasn’t about to play into the jabs my co-workers would likely deliver. After all, they watched me leave the bar with the mysterious, dirty talking biker; the proud owner of a dick designed to make a woman question everything she thought she wanted.

It was a good plan.

Forget Stryker and his magical dick, pierced nipples and dirty promises.

Ignore my co-workers.

Invest enough portfolios to buy myself a new Chloe bag, and the pair of Giuseppe Zanotti heels I’ve been eyeing.

All in a day’s work.

My plan turned to shit the minute I stepped into Wurther & Sons Financial. Not only was I teased about going home with ‘Jax Teller’, but I had left my briefcase, containing the signed multimillion dollar contract, at the bar. Which leads me back to Stryker, who promised to have one of his biker buddies retrieve it and bring it to me.

Yeah, like I said, my plan turned to shit.

Goodbye Chloe.

Until next month Giuseppe.

The day progressively became worse and on my way home I thought the universe was finished fucking with me. What else could possibly happen that hasn’t already?

The universe wasn’t done.

Not at all.

The express bus pulled up across the street five minutes early and I had to run across Fifth Avenue. Of course I was too impatient to wait for the light and jaywalked behind a bus, burning my leg on the exhaust.

Fuck you, universe. Fuck you.

I needed a burrito, an order of guac and chips, maybe a taco or three and a bottle of wine. Some girls turn to ice cream, this girl turns to Qdoba. Lucky for me there is one on the corner where the express bus leaves me. I loaded up on my comfort food and trekked the two blocks home, my heels clicking along the concrete streets of Brooklyn as I round the corner to my apartment.

I lift my eyes and peer down the tree-lined block and immediately spot the motorcycle parked in front of my brownstone. I’d be a liar if I told you seeing that sleek piece of machinery on the curb didn’t excite me and brighten my day.

However, as quickly as my heels pound the pavement in a rush to get home and the smile spreads across my lips, it’s gone because it’s not Stryker holding my briefcase.

It’s his friend.

Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down.

Unbeknownst to him, I watch from behind him as he peeks through the glass door. After a moment of allowing him to be a peeping tom, I clear my throat.

“Can I help you?” I snap as he turns around and checks me out.

No thank you.

One mistake is enough.

He smiles slyly, like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar and lifts my briefcase with both hands, dangling it like a peace offering.

I take it with my free hand and he stares at the Qdoba bag in my other hand.

“It’ll never work.”

“Excuse me?”

“You and me, we’ll never work,” he says pointedly as he lifts his gaze from the bag to my face. “I could never get with a girl who eats from Qdoba.”

“Pity,” I bite back, shoving my way passed him to dig for my keys.

“It’s a step up from Taco Bell,” he continues.

“It is not,” I argue.

“Sure it is, they both leave you in the bathroom for hours.”

“Too much info,” I say, scrunching my nose as I fit the key in my door.

“You got a craving for Mexican then you need to hit the Crazy Taco in Staten Island,” he advises. “That shit is the bomb.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, holding back the urge to roll my eyes as I walk inside.

“You’re welcome,” he calls over my shoulder.

Spinning on my heel, I stare at him and press my brain to remember his name.

“I’m sorry…” my voice trails off.

“Linc.”

“Right. Well, Linc thank you for bringing this over,” I say, holding up the briefcase as I stare at the patch sewn to his leather vest.

“No problem, sweets,” he replies, rocking back on the heels of his Timberland boots. “He’s fucked.”

“Excuse me?”

“Stryker. He’s fucked,” he supplies simply. “Don’t know him long, but I know him well enough to know he’s seen some shit…shit people like you and well, even me don’t know a damn thing about. He’s fucked,” he repeats, cocking his head to the side as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m a gambler, got the bankruptcy papers to prove it and it’s taken me a long time to learn what a sure bet is. I’d bet everything, every dollar I have to my name that Stryker wanted to bring that briefcase here to you.”

“Well, he didn’t,” I say quickly. “Truthfully, I never expected him to deliver it anyway.”

He looks at me unnervingly as if he’s calling my bluff and I learn Linc truly is a gambler. He’d go bankrupt on that bet though because what I said was true. After Stryker left, I expected nothing.

“Right, well, you have a good night,” he says finally, turning around and heads down the stairs only to pause midway.

“Crazy Taco,” he calls over his shoulder. “You should try it some time. Thursdays are a good night to go. Half price margaritas all night.”

I tear my eyes from the Knight on his back and look down at my hands.

A briefcase in one.

Takeout in another.

Strong.

Independent.

Fierce.

Successful.

All the things I wanted to be.

All the things I am.

But there is one thing I didn’t bank on being.

Lonely.

I’m that too.