Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

6. The Line, Pt. 1

Author's Note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and strong themes that may be disturbing or troubling to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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"That was pretty good," Striker said as we stepped down from the stage. He propped his guitar against our table and pulled out my chair for me. "You got some nice pipes on you, darlin'."

I gave a flustered giggle and brought a hand to my flushed cheek. "Thanks," I said softly. "You're not so bad yourself."

"You flatter me, darlin'," he remarked, taking a seat in his own chair. Miss Daisy had placed our food on the table and left to tend to another customer, and Striker didn't waste much time before chowing down.

We each ate our meals like we had been starved. Miss Daisy brought me a new glass of rum and Coke when I finished the first, and I soon felt a buzz forming in my head. Striker had drunk most of the bottle of whiskey, and he poured me a glass before downing the last of it. He called Miss Daisy to bring him another bottle, to which she responded, "Aren't you supposed to be bodyguardin'?"

"I ain't no got-damn lightweight," he said, taking the bottle from her, uncorking it, and pouring himself a new glass. He nudged my whiskey glass closer to me while holding up his own. "Cheers, darlin'."

An amused smirk crossed my face as I picked up the glass. "What are we toasting to?"

Striker gave his glass a slight shake, the ice inside clinking against the sides, then said without giving it too much thought, "To odd jobs and good music."

I snickered. "That'll work."

I tapped his glass with mine then brought the drink to my lips. I took one hesitant sip, my nose crinkling at the strong smell and taste. I swallowed the small sip before forcing the rest of it down in one quick gulp. My throat burned as it slid down into my stomach, and within a few moments the buzz in my head grew stronger.

Striker downed his whiskey in one large gulp, then promptly grabbed the bottle to refill his glass. He was no longer taking the time to savor the taste, but seemed to now only be concerned with getting as much liquor into his body as possible.

Another hour or so later, we finished the bottle before deciding it was time to call it a night. We staggered up the stairs and down the hall to our room, giggling like a couple of idiots at the events of the day. Striker was drunk, but I was plastered. Fortunately, I was still just sober enough to find the room key in my backpack and unlock the door — after missing the lock three times.

We stumbled into the room, and I landed gracelessly on the bed. (There was only one bed in the room, much to our chagrin, and Striker had said when we rented the room that he would sleep on the couch.) I giggled again at my drunken clumsiness, holding onto Striker's arm for support.

"I was thinkin' you could hold your liquor a little better than that, darlin'," he teased and plopped down beside me, kicking off his boots and tossing his hat on the nightstand.

I gave him a light shove in retaliation, but he quickly regained his balance and pushed me back. He didn't use much force, but I fell backward on the bed as the room spun around me. I closed my eyes to stop the dizziness, and it worked well enough until Striker shifted beside me on the bed. I slowly reopened my eyes, and my brain immediately became a little less foggy.

Striker now hovered above me, straddling my legs, hands on each side of my head. His reptilian eyes, though glazed from the hard liquor now swimming through his blood, were calm and focused, studying every curve and detail of my body. They glowed in the dim light like burning cinder. They were mesmerizing, and I was helpless under their gaze.