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

9. Bombproof

After breakfast, Striker took me to a small clothing shop down the road from the inn. It was a quaint little place, just a standalone shack that couldn't have been more than 800 square feet. A young, soft-spoken imp greeted us as the cowbell on the front door clanked behind us. Striker tipped his hat to her while I strode toward what I assumed was the women's section.

I sorted through the very limited choices of tops and blouses until I found two I didn't hate: one was a solid rust-colored tank top, the other a white sleeveless button-up. They were a bit plain, especially for the price, but they were cute. That, and I knew I couldn't keep walking around in a flannel with half the buttons missing — the fact that I had to wear Striker's jacket already implied too much to the outside observer.

I quickly stepped into the tiny dressing room and tried on the two shirts. They both fit, thankfully, and I headed up to the counter to pay.

"Is it okay if I change into one of them in the dressing room?" I asked the store clerk as I handed her the cash.

"Oh, yeah, that's fine," she said in a quiet, wispy voice. "Would you like me to cut the tags off?"

"Yes, please."

Striker approached the counter from his place near the door. "Find somethin' you like?"

"Yeah," I said. "Oh, yeah, before I forget. . ."

I reached into my wallet and pulled out exactly 200 hellbucks. "I believe this is yours," I said as I handed the cash out to him.

Striker blinked, but smiled and took the money. "Much obliged."

I finished paying and retreated back into the dressing room to change shirts; after a moment I decided on the tank top and slipped it on over my head. I glanced in the mirror before opening the dressing room door — and I took an admittedly great deal of satisfaction in how the low-cut neck showed off just enough cleavage to possibly get a reaction out of a certain someone. I snickered to myself and slipped Striker's jacket back on, leaving the front open. Rolling up my other new top and my torn flannel and stuffing them in my backpack, I walked out of the dressing room toward the door.

Striker was just outside the door, and I swear on my afterlife he struggled to maintain eye contact for a moment. "Ready now?"

"Yep," I replied with a grin.

"Good. The stable and Miss Daisy's ranch are back the way we came, on the other side of the inn." He pointed out toward the direction of the inn.

"Oh, that's good, actually," I said. "I can stop by and leave my shirts in our room on the way."

We set out back toward the inn, where I hurried up the stairs to our room and tossed my torn flannel and new white top on the bed. Striker waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed. He would glance up at me when I headed up to the room and again when I descended the stairs, keeping a protective eye out for me from a distance.

"So, when're you gonna give me my jacket back?" he said as we walked back outside.

I shielded my eyes from the late morning sun and looked up at him. "But what if I get cold?" I teased. "You've already got enough layers on."

Striker groaned softly and rolled his eyes, but said nothing and simply continued down the path to the stable.

I pursed my lips, suddenly a bit regretful for having teased him so much. I remained silent for a moment, wondering if I'd gone a little too far. He obviously wasn't in need of an extra layer of clothing; I suppose he just wanted back what was his, which I could understand.

Then a thought came to my mind: Maybe his horse, his guitar, and the clothes on his back were all he had. Most of the people in Wrath didn't appear to have very much to their names — and I knew there was a surplus of turf wars constantly being waged throughout all seven rings, so it wasn't too far-fetched to assume that part of Wrath's population could've been impoverished collateral.

"Here," I said, shrugging the jacket off my shoulders and handing it out to him. "Sorry I held onto it longer than I needed."

Striker looked at me for a second before taking the jacket and slipping it on. "We're almost to the stable," he said. "It's right up here."

I followed the direction of his finger and spotted a large wooden building. There was a spacious fenced area attached where a couple of hell horses trotted around. An older imp with stubby horns and a large mustache saw us coming and greeted us.

"I was wonderin' when you were comin' back!" he said with his hands on his hips. He stepped forward and clapped his hand in Striker's for a handshake. "You ready to get your boy?"

"Been ready," Striker remarked. "I gotta go by your sister's and get him shod."

"Yeah, he was lookin' like he needed new shoes. C'mon, I'll get him for you."

We followed the imp inside the shabby old stable to one of about seven or eight horse stalls, where a large black hell horse with an orange flaming mane and tail nibbled on a stack of hay. It lifted its head when we approached the stall door and came closer. The imp unlocked the door and handed Striker the bridle hanging on a hook by the stall.

"Hey, buddy," Striker murmured as he patted Bombproof's snout and slipped the bridle onto his head. He then turned to take the sea green saddle from the imp and slung it over Bombproof's back. After buckling and securing the saddle, he guided the horse out of the stall by the reins.

I took a few steps back as the pair walked past. "So this is your noble steed," I said.

"Yep." He gave the horse a gentle scratch under his jaw. "This is Bombproof. Bombproof, this is (Y/N)."

I smiled, but was hesitant to reach out and touch him. After four years as a demon, I had gotten used to being invulnerable to fire, but the sheer size of the beast was a bit intimidating. He adjusted his stance, which caused me to recoil slightly.

Striker noticed my uncertainty and said half-jokingly, "Y'know, you need to be able to touch him if you expect to ride him." He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and brought my hand to the side of Bombproof's neck. The bright flames of his mane harmlessly lapped at my arm as my hand slowly ran across his soft jet-black coat. Bombproof remained completely calm, which helped embolden me to scratch his neck for a moment.

"He's beautiful," I said, using my other hand to stroke his snout. Bombproof pushed slightly against my hand, seemingly encouraging me to continue.

"Ain't he?" Striker responded with a proud smirk. "Now let's go get 'im shod."

I followed Striker as he led Bombproof out of the stable and back down the street. It was around noon, and the Wrathian sun was getting hot, making me glad I gave Striker back his jacket when I did. There were more people out walking around town now; a small crowd of imps were browsing the farmer's market, and by the market people were coming and going from what looked to be a tiny mom-and-pop diner. Occasionally, a car or motorcycle would drive down the dirt road, but I only saw one other imp with a hell horse strolling through town.

I suppose it's only fitting, I thought. With the technological advancements over the years back on Earth, it made sense it would have carried over into the afterlife as well.

We walked maybe half a mile before we reached a small metalwork and blacksmithing shop. An open shed was adjacent to the shop, and in it was Miss Daisy hammering away at a piece of metal over an anvil. She sawed her arm across her forehead to wipe off the beads of sweat, then spotted us from across the road. She flashed a bright smile and said, "Come on in! I'll be with y'all in just a minute!"