Reaper's Legacy(39)

He still jacked off to those panties sometimes.

“Where the f*ck is Hunter?” he asked irritably.

Deke narrowed his eyes.

“Like I give a shit?” he answered. “I’m not on board with this. We don’t talk to Jacks. We hurt them. That’s how it’s done—there’s a system.”

Toke, one of the younger Portland guys, nodded in agreement, his face grim. He’d insisted on being part of this meet. Gracie was his old lady these days. Between him and Deke, they were sitting on a f*cking powder keg …

“We’re talking to this one,” Picnic said, his voice soft but unyielding. At forty-two, he was the oldest man at the table. He and Deke might have equal rank, but Pic had been around a long time, and when he spoke, men listened. Ruger knew he’d been talked about for national president, but the man wasn’t interested. “Something’s going on. I want to hear what this * has to say about it.”

“Fuckin’ simple,” Deke replied. “Little bastards are movin’ in on our territory. You know it, I know it. This shit needs to end.”

Pic shook his head and leaned forward, pale blue eyes intense.

“Doesn’t make sense, brother,” he said. “Four guys living in a house in Portland … Two of them going to f*cking school here, like they’re citizens or something. Nomads. You seen them pull a goddamn thing these past nine months?”

Deke sighed, and shook his head.

“Like I said, doesn’t add up,” Pic continued. “We know they’re our enemies. They know it, too. So why the f*ck would they be here? Death wish?”

“Setting us up,” Ruger suggested. “Trying to get us to relax? Either that or a mind f*ck.”

“Your situation in Seattle, they give you any shit about it?” Pic asked him, although Ruger knew he had the answer already.

“Nope,” he replied. “Fuckwad was theirs to punish, no problem with that. Made our lives easier. Damned civil about it, too.”

“Exactly, and you ever know a Devil’s Jack to be polite?” Picnic continued. “Fuck, didn’t think they knew how. These guys are young—different—and none of us has ever seen them before this year. Roseburg boys say there’ve been dustups in northern Cali. Something’s happening in that club, and for once I think it might not be about screwing us over.”

Deke slammed down a shot, then leaned back, arms crossed, face grim.

“They don’t change,” Toke muttered. “Doesn’t matter what games they’re playing, doesn’t matter who’s in charge, none of it. They’re Jacks and they belong in the ground. Period. Every day they’re livin’ in my town, it eats at me. I want to end it.”

“You got one-track minds, both of you,” Horse said, pulling up a chair to join them. “I swear, we’re goin’ in f*ckin’ circles here. Slide just texted. Jacks are in the parking lot. Just the two of ’em, no sign of anyone else. Don’t do anything crazy until we finish talking, okay?”

Toke nodded, eyes narrowed.

Shit, Ruger thought. They shouldn’t have let him come along. Man hated the Devil’s Jacks, and with good reason, but he was like a damned grenade without a pin.

The door opened, bright sunlight framing two figures Ruger recognized. Hunter and Skid—the same bastards who’d come up to collect their former brother in Seattle the weekend before. Both were big, although Hunter was the taller of the two. He was young, probably no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Nomad, so he didn’t have a home chapter. No official status, but the man carried himself with instinctive authority.

If the Jacks had a serious power-shift in progress, Ruger would bet a thousand bucks Hunter was at the center of it.

The music changed and a new girl strutted out onto the stage. Ms. Personality hopped on down, but she didn’t bother coming over to their table trying to sell lap dances. She might not be enthusiastic about her job, but apparently she wasn’t entirely stupid.

None of them stood as the Jacks approached. Ruger kicked a chair over to Hunter, who caught it with a smile that was anything but friendly. He flipped it backward, straddling it casually. Skid dropped down next to him.

“You ready to talk?” Hunter asked, looking between the men. “I’m Hunter, by the way. With the Devil’s Jacks. Motorcycle club, may have heard of us? This is Skid.”

Deke’s eyes narrowed, and Ruger had to bite back a grin. He wasn’t sure yet if Hunter was an idiot or not, but the kid had balls of f*ckin’ brass.