Reaper's Legacy (Reapers MC, #2)(51)

I suspected she’d be in bed about five minutes after she got the kids down.

I was nervous driving out to the party. The Reapers’ clubhouse was a couple miles off the highway, toward the end of an old state road. I passed a group of four motorcycles headed for the highway, ridden by men dressed a lot like Ruger. Tattoos, jeans, boots, and black leather jackets. Loaded saddlebags.

They didn’t appear to be happy campers.

The building itself surprised me. I guess I hadn’t expected the Armory description to be so literal, because this was an honest-to-God converted National Guard building. Three stories tall, walls built to withstand tanks, and an enclosed courtyard with a gate big enough to drive a large truck through.

There were quite a few people there already. Lots of guys, all of them wearing their distinctive colors. They had different states or towns on their lower patches, but the Reapers’ symbol and name were the same.

Unsurprisingly, there were lots of motorcycles, but also quite a few cars, most of which had been parked in a gravel lot off to the side. A younger guy wearing a cut without very many patches waved me over in that direction, so I pulled in next to a little red Honda. Four girls who’d clearly been drinking for a while poured out. They were young, slutted up, and ready to party. Last night I’d noticed that the club women weren’t afraid to show off their bodies—Dancer rocked a pair of jeans and backless top in a big way—but the Reapers’ old ladies looked somehow more classy and confident than this bunch.

Maybe it was about the attitude? I got the impression these girls were on the prowl, and that they weren’t necessarily planning to be too picky.

They ignored me entirely, giggling and taking shots of each other with their phones. I guess I didn’t rate their attention, which was both depressing and a bit of a relief. Not that I cared how I looked—I’d gone with a basic T-shirt, my standard cutoffs and a pair of flip-flops. Despite my fight with Ruger yesterday morning (not to mention my margarita-fueled belligerence last night), I really did want to keep things low-key.

I wasn’t sure what to expect at a Reapers party but I figured I’d be fine if I stuck with my girls.

I’d sent a text to Ruger letting him know I was coming. He’d replied with a reminder about our conversation, which almost convinced me to change into something sluttier just to spite him. Then I pulled my head out of my ass. Ruger losing his shit was not something I wanted see, no matter how satisfying it would be to defy him.

Defy him? Christ, how old was I?

I also texted Maggs, Em, Dancer, and Marie. They said to come straight through to the back, where they were setting up the food outside. They’d asked me to stop off and buy a bunch of extra chips, so I’d hit Walmart on the way.

Now I trailed behind the slut brigade, their big hair, loud makeup, and microscopic clothing providing plenty of cover as we walked toward the big gate in the courtyard. A couple of guys stood outside, obviously monitoring the entrance. The gaggle flirted with them and then passed on through. They probably thought I was a total hag in comparison, I realized glumly. A little lip gloss wouldn’t have killed me. Apparently giant shopping bags full of chips counted for something, though, because the men welcomed me enthusiastically enough.

Sex appeal is great, but there’s nothing quite like food to win a man’s heart.

“I’m Ruger’s almost-sister-in-law,” I told one of the guys, who nodded me on through. I followed the narrow driveway that ran along the side of the building until I reached the main courtyard out back—a broad, open space that was a mixture of parking lot and grass. Loud music blasted through giant box speakers, and evergreen-covered mountains surrounded us on all sides. It really was a gorgeous place—much nicer than I’d expected.

A good-sized group of children darted through clumps of adults and took turns playing on a giant, clearly homemade swing set, complete with a fort at the top. There were men everywhere, far more men than women, although another group of girls followed me. I guessed the men had been there earlier and now the rest of the guests were arriving?

Ruger was nowhere to be seen. I spotted a row of long folding tables near the back wall of the building covered with a mismatched series of tablecloths. Off to one side stood a black-barreled BBQ smoker almost as big as my car, mounted on a trailer. Smoke drifted out and the scent of roasting pig filled the air.

“Sophie!” Marie called, waving me over toward one of the tables. I moved quickly toward her, trying not to stare at anyone, but it was hard. The guys were almost all at least a little scary-looking. I mean, some of them were regular enough, I guess, but somehow rougher. They had tanned skin and a disproportionate number of beards. Others were less normal-looking. I saw a lot of tattoos and piercings, and very few shirts, although they all seemed to be wearing their leather vests. All of them were Reapers and most seemed to be in a pretty good mood.

I also noticed a few of the little boys wearing their own tiny vests. Not real ones, but play ones clearly meant to copy their daddies’. Shit. Knowing my luck, Noah would be begging for one of those if he saw them. Good thing I hadn’t brought him along.

“Want some help with the bags?” a man asked. I opened my mouth to refuse, then looked up and realized it was Horse. I smiled, relieved to recognize someone besides just the girls I’d met last night.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “I met Marie. She’s great.”