Reaper's Legacy (Reapers MC, #2)(7)

“I don’t get what you’re so upset about,” Miranda muttered, pulling herself up to make room for her * boyfriend. “There’s a fire escape out there and it’s not like it’s cold. It’s August. Kid was fine.”

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and forced myself to stay calm. Then I opened them and looked past her.

That’s when I saw the porn on the TV.

My eyes skittered away from the sight of a silicone woman screwing four guys simultaneously. Something terrible took fire in my heart.

Stupid bitch. Miranda would pay for this.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” she slurred.

I didn’t bother answering. I just needed to get my boy out of there and home safe. I’d deal with my neighbor tomorrow.

Maybe by then I’d have calmed down enough not to end her miserable life.

I carried Noah out of the apartment and across the hallway to my own door. Somehow I managed to get it open without dropping him, fingers trembling from suppressed rage and a healthy dose of guilt.

I’d failed him.

My baby needed me, and instead of protecting him, I’d left him parked with a druggie who could’ve gotten him killed. Being a single mom sucked.

It took a warm bath, an hour of snuggles, and four books to get Noah to sleep.

Me? I wasn’t sure I’d ever sleep again.

The summer heat didn’t help—I swear, the place had zero airflow. After an hour of sweating in the darkness, watching his little chest rise and fall, I gave up. I popped a beer and sat down on our couch, a thousand plans running through my head. First, I’d kill Miranda. Then either I needed to find a new place to live or she did. I also pondered whether to call the cops.

I liked the idea of throwing her and her stoner boyfriend to the wolves. They deserved a friendly visit from the boys in blue.

But since her man was in a motorcycle club, calling the cops might not be the smartest move. Guys in MCs generally weren’t fond of the police, a perspective he and his club brothers might feel the need to share with me once he made bail. Not to mention Child Protective Services would get involved, which could also get pretty ugly.

I loved Noah and would do anything for him. I was a damned good mother. When other girls my age were out partying and having fun, I was taking him to the park and reading him stories. I spent my twenty-first birthday holding him while he puked from stomach flu instead of hitting the bars. No matter how rough things got, I spent time with Noah every day and made sure he felt loved.

But I didn’t look so good on paper.

Single mom. Dad out of the picture. No family around, crappy studio apartment. Probably unemployed after tonight … What would CPS make of that? Would they blame me for leaving him with Miranda in the first place?

I had no idea what to do. I took a long pull on the beer and then turned on my phone, where Ruger’s message glowed at me accusingly. Crap. I hated calling him. No matter how much time he spent with us (and he made a point of seeing Noah regularly), I just couldn’t relax around him. Ruger didn’t like me and I knew it. I think he blamed me for destroying his relationship with Zach. God knows, I played my part. I pushed that memory away.

I always pushed that memory away.

If only I unnerved him, too, but apparently that was too much to ask. Instead he just looked right through me, hardly bothering to acknowledge my existence.

Even more frustrating? Ruger had to be the hottest guy I’d ever met. He was all danger and hard muscles, with his tattoos and piercings and that goddamned black Harley of his. When he walked into a room he owned it, because it only took one look to see he was a f*cking badass, the type who takes what he wants and never says he’s sorry.

I’d been nursing a hell of a crush on him for longer than I cared to acknowledge, something he’d failed to notice despite his apparent fascination with every other woman under the age of forty within five hundred miles. Well, failed to notice all but once, and that hadn’t exactly ended well.

At least he never brought any of his club whores around (which I greatly appreciated), but that didn’t change the fact that he was one of the biggest sluts in north Idaho.

So that’s where we stood.

Presented with my nonthreatening charms, the panhandle’s sexiest, most prolific man-whore still preferred hanging with my seven-year-old child during his visits.

I sighed and hit the play button.

“Sophie, answer your f*cking phone,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding, like usual. “I just got a call from Noah. I talked to him for a while and tried to keep him calm, but then some bitch started yellin’ and took the phone away. Nobody answered when I called back. I don’t know what the f*ck you’re thinking, but your kid needs you. Get off your ass and go get him. Now. I swear, if anything happens to him … You don’t wanna go there, Sophie. Just f*cking call me when you find him. No excuses.”

I dropped the phone and leaned forward on my knees, rubbing my temples with the tips of my fingers.

In addition to everything else, now I had to deal with Mr. Being-a-Biker-Isn’t-a-Crime losing his shit on me. Which he would do, I had no doubt. Ruger was scary enough in a good mood. The one time I’d seen him truly enraged still gave me nightmares, and that’s not a figure of speech. Unfortunately, he had a point. When my son needed me, I hadn’t answered the phone. Thank God Ruger had been there for Noah. But still … I really didn’t want to deal with him right now, either.