Reaper's Legacy (Reapers MC, #2)(32)

Good guy to have at your back in a fight.

“You bastards have it easy up there in Idaho,” Deke said. “Fuckin’ monopoly, so all the talent has to compete to work for you. We got more strip clubs here than anywhere else in the damned country, or so I hear. Market’s saturated, and that means owners gotta take what they can get. Some of these places barely break even. Crazy-ass shit.”

Ruger glanced around the room with new interest. Aside from their table, there couldn’t have been more than six customers total. No, make that seven. Some lucky bastard was getting a hand job back in the far corner.

“So it’s always this empty?” he asked. “That’s f*cked up. No wonder she isn’t trying. Why bother?”

“Can’t dance for shit, but at least she gives a hell of a blow job,” Deke responded. “Try her out later if you like. Any of the girls, for that matter.”

Deke glanced over at their waitress, jerking his chin toward their drinks. She carried over a tray of refills, smiling nervously. Ruger eyed her, considering Deke’s offer. The girl wore a black leather bustier, a short, tight skirt, and black fishnets. Long, reddish-brown hair, sort of like Sophie’s. And there his cock went again, getting all hard.

Yeah, this good-guy bullshit wasn’t his gig at all.

Damn, but he’d wanted Soph in his bed a long time. Every inch of her hot little body was burned in his brain, starting that first night he’d seen her screwing Zach in his apartment, which officially classified him as one sick f*ck. She’d been sixteen years old and scared shitless, and what’d his response been?

He’d jacked off in the damned shower while she hunted for her panties in his living room. Panties she’d never found, by the way, which he f*cking well knew because he still had them. Pink and lacy, innocent as hell, and enough to get his ass thrown into jail back in those days.

Then he’d gone and really f*cked things up four years ago, f*cked them up so bad her entire life exploded. Not entirely his fault, but he still regretted how he’d handled Zach. Should’ve killed the cocksucker when he had the chance. Even with all his guilt and regret, though, one thing hadn’t changed.

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.